Watch Me

by Jody Gehrman

  Sam’s eyes lock on mine as he takes the seat next to me. Heat spirals through me.

  “Professor Youngblood,” he says quietly.

  “Hi, Sam.” My mouth feels dry.

  “Ah, is this one of your lucky students?” Raul’s voice sounds too loud.

  I nod and try for crisp, detached. “Raul, this is Sam. And beside him, that’s Jess.”

  Jess leans forward until she can see around Sam. Her face is so fresh and young, yet she cakes it with makeup. Why do girls do that? Don’t they know it’s their naked, peachy complexions the rest of us try to imitate when we slather on foundation and blush?

  “Nice to meet you,” she says with a little wave.

  We make small talk for a few minutes, commenting on the size of the audience, plans for the coming weekend. Every word tastes sugary sweet in my mouth—fake and saccharine. All the while, I can feel Sam’s eyes on me, his silent intensity like a force of gravity. He says nothing. As soon as possible, I murmur a polite conversation closer and pivot in my seat to focus on my date.

  My overwhelming awareness of Sam persists. I can feel his heat caressing my back.

  I try very hard to concentrate on Raul. He tells me about remodeling one of his new restaurants. I nod repeatedly and smile, hearing nothing. My concentration’s shot. Sam’s low voice behind me pulses like a bass beat. I long to turn around and yank him from his conversation with young, peachy Jess. I want to monopolize his attention, make him talk only to me.

  Look only at me.

  The lights go out, and the red velvet curtains sweep open. When Raul takes my hand, I don’t resist.

  That’s when I start to notice the oddest sensation.

  My body’s slanted toward Raul. Our knees rest against one another. His forearm wraps with mine, and our palms lay pressed together, our fingers interlocked.

  Yet it’s the tiny spot where my elbow touches Sam’s that’s on fire.

  The right side of my body’s cold and lifeless.

  The left side of my body’s in flames.

  God, I’m hopeless. How can I be so perverse? Raul’s an age-appropriate, attentive, attractive man. He owns restaurants. He drives a Range Rover. He’s got a stock portfolio. Most of all, he’s a bona fide adult, and fucking him—even irresponsibly, once, without feeling—runs zero risk of getting me fired.

  Sam’s still a child. From where I sit, I can see one loose tube sock bunching around his ankle. It’s heartbreaking. He’s way too young and way too impulsive. I have to be out of my mind to want him.

  Yet the evidence is there—the heat rushing through my elbow straight to my core. The heightened, prickly readiness. It’s almost like fear, when every nerve in your body goes taut, ready to fight or fly. Except this isn’t fear. It’s longing.

  It’s sick and wrong, but it’s there.

  About twenty minutes into the first act, Sam leans over and whispers, “You like Mamet?”

  His hot breath in my ear sends shivers up my spine.

  “He’s an asshole,” I murmur. “But also kind of brilliant.”

  Sam chuckles softly.

  Raul looks over sharply, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Chastened, I lean toward him again.

  My traitorous elbow goes on basking in Sam’s heat, though. The electric current is so palpable; it’s a wonder there isn’t a blue spark glowing in the dark between us.

  * * *

  “I had a nice time tonight.” I can hear the question in his voice. His eyes compel me to ask him in.

  I can tell by the awkward silence filling the car I’ve been sitting here wordlessly for too long. For lack of a better way to break it, I blurt, “Do you want to come in?”

  He smiles, and I instantly regret the offer. My craving for solitude pulses like a toothache. I just want to be alone with a joint and a drink. I want to think about Sam.

  Raul’s white teeth gleam in the dark. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Inside, I become instantly clumsy. I drop the bottle opener, trip over a pair of shoes I left in the kitchen. It’s a bad habit of mine—leaving shoes everywhere. Pablo used to berate me for it. My hands feel like puppets I can’t quite control. I even crack one of the wineglasses, a clean spiderweb break that appears when I tip the bottle too forcefully against its rim. I shove it quickly into the garbage, hoping he didn’t notice.

  At last, I manage to pour us a couple of glasses of pinot. He sees my hand shaking as I hand him his.

  “Do I make you nervous, Kate?” He holds the wine beneath his nose and inhales.

  “No. I’m just tired.”

  “So I make you sleepy?” He takes a step closer.

  “Not at all.” I raise my glass, taking half a step back. “Salud.”

  “Salud.” He keeps his eyes on my face as he sips his wine.

  I sit on a stool at the breakfast bar, not wanting to lead him into the living room. The couch in front of the gas fireplace seems way too intimate. I don’t want to send the wrong message. A glass of wine is one thing, but I’m not ready to sleep with this guy. We’re adults, right? We don’t make out without intending to have sex. Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself.

  He raises his eyebrows a little as I perch on the stool.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, trying to sound light and clueless.

  “I’m not trying to be forward, but maybe we would be more comfortable…” His gaze moves past me to the living room.

  “It’s a bit of a mess in there.” I’m not lying. That’s how determined I was not to ask him in—I didn’t even tidy up. I still don’t know what made me extend the invitation. Politeness? I don’t think so. I’m not in the habit of doing things to save face, or to save other people’s feelings.

  “Very well.” He leans against the stool and drinks more wine. “Your house is cozy. I like it very much.”

  “Thanks. It’s old and cranky, but it’s coming together.”

  “You own it?”

  “It owns me, more like.”

  “That is impressive.”

  I shrug. “It’s the only adult thing I’ve ever done.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Anyway, what did you think of the play?”

  “It was…” He searches the air for the right word. His jaw clenches. “Disturbing.”

  “I know. Mamet’s like that.”

  He shakes his head. “By the end, I really hated her—Oleanna. She was such a puta loco.”

  “I don’t know about ‘crazy bitch.’” I force myself not to lecture. “They were both feeding into the dynamic.”

  “What about you?” His eyes rove my face, resting on my lips.

  “I liked it. The actors were decent, the set disappointing, but—”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I tilt my head sideways. “What?”

  “Have you ever faced a situation like the professor in the play?”

  I laugh in surprise. “Oh.”

  “Forgive me. I could not help but notice how your attractive male student looked at you.”

  “Who, Sam?” It comes out defensive. “I doubt that.”

  “I assure you. A man knows.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

  His hand cups my knee. “And anyway, you didn’t answer the question.”

  “Which was…?”

  “Do your students often try to sleep with you?”

  “No.” I say it too quickly, though.

  His skeptical look makes me blush.

  “Not openly.” I swirl my wine around in my glass. “But sometimes I get the feeling…”

  “Yes?” His voice catches. He looks at me with avid interest. It occurs to me that the possibility turns him on.

  “Crushes happen. It’s no big deal.”

  “Maybe not for you.” He leans close and inhales, smelling me. “For them, it must be torture.”

  I lean back, clear my throat. “I’m, ah, not really—�
�

  “Of course.” He backs off reluctantly.

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to be confusing—”

  “No reason to apologize. Really.” He looks around. “Can we play some music?”

  “Oh, I—sure.” My butterfingers kick back in as I fumble for the Bluetooth speaker.

  “Allow me.” He takes the speaker from me. Deftly, he pulls his phone from his pocket and frowns as he syncs it with the sound system. Within seconds, bright horns and congas fill the room.

  “What’s this?”

  He studies my expression as I listen. “You like Cuban music?”

  “I don’t know. Is this Cuban?”

  “Yes, a kind of rumba. Do you know?”

  I shrug. “I’ve heard of it.”

  Gently, he takes my hand and pulls me from my stool. He places one hand firmly between my shoulder blades, holds the other hand palm out, elbow bent, arm raised. I put my right hand in his, unsure of what to do with the other.

  “Like this.” He takes my left hand and arranges my fingers on his right hip. His grin’s the sort you’d offer a skittish child, easy and warm.

  He moves to the music, taking me with him. I watch his feet as we step side to side.

  “Yes, good. Slow, quick-quick, slow.” He starts out simple. When he sees I’m getting it, he gradually adds more flare. “Eyes up!”

  I raise my head. He watches me as we continue moving. I look over his shoulder, concentrating. The horns and the percussion build, the singer’s voice going rough and emotional. Mi amor es tan fuerte y loco, the singer cries.

  Raul’s body moves with the muscular certainty of someone who has done this all his life. Though I’m not usually much of a dancer, in his arms I feel light, slender, bendable. He twirls me, moving with an expert’s ease. I remember this feeling with Pablo—the reassurance of all that confidence, like stepping into a strong river; all I have to do is surrender. He’ll take care of the rest.

  Is that what I’m doing here? Looking for a Pablo replacement?

  Jesus, no. It took me months to patch up the stab wounds Pablo left in me. His betrayal was so visceral, slicing to the bone. I’m barely stitched together as it is. Whenever I think of his affair with Esmeralda, I want to kill someone. Anyone. The rage threatens to choke me as I push it back down. Mi amor es tan fuerte y loco.

  “Don’t tense up,” Raul murmurs into my ear. His breath against my neck is hot. Instead of exciting me, something deep inside recoils. My rage about Pablo mixes with my ambivalence about tonight. I can feel myself becoming stiff and wooden beneath Raul’s deft fingers. Why can’t I just fuck this guy? What’s wrong with me? He’s pulling out all the stops, yet I’m warm and pliable as steel.

  Like a hunter sensing his prey is about to flee, Raul tightens his grip and pulls me closer, quickening his pace as the music speeds up. I yank myself free.

  For a moment we stare at one another. The congas and the claves beat out a furious rhythm. I can see in his face mild astonishment. Irritation, too. He probably doesn’t hear no very often. He’s smooth, I’ll give him that. Tonight I’m just not in the mood for smooth.

  I shake my hair back, trying to gather my thoughts. I stalk to the counter and turn off the music.

  “I’m sorry.” He says into the sudden silence. He doesn’t sound sorry, though. “I thought—”

  “I’ve been through a messy divorce,” I blurt.

  “Yes, Zoe said—”

  “You should go,” I say, cutting him off.

  “What? Why?” He looks bewildered.

  “I’m damaged, okay?” I gesture at myself. “Not open, not receptive, not ready.”

  A tender smile lights up his face. “Of course. I understand completely.”

  Walking him to the door, I want him gone more than anything I’ve wanted in a long time. He hesitates in the foyer, and I fight the urge to scream.

  “Call me.” That empathetic, slightly pitying smile still lingers on his lips.

  I want to slap it off. Instead, I nod, swallowing back my anger, knowing I’m being a puta loco.

  “When you’re ready,” he adds, touching one finger to my nose.

  Finally, mercifully, he’s gone. I close the door and lean against it. Closing my eyes, the tears burst out of me in two quick, gasping sobs. Then I take a deep breath and head upstairs.

  SAM

  Wednesday I’m in the library, rereading Pay Dirt. I’m in my favorite carrel on the third floor, just past the Medieval History section. Nobody ever comes up here. The gray light seeping through the birdshit-streaked windows is barely enough to read by, but it’s quiet. I’m poring over the scene where your protagonist, Nora Clay, finds the first body. I take a pencil and lightly circle each verb, marveling at your nimble sentences. You eschew adjectives in favor of muscular, active verbs. Soon I lose my clinical distance and surrender to the scene. I am Nora as she takes in the details—the victim’s torn, bloody dress, the carnage between her legs. I smell what she smells, feel what she feels.

  “Always with your nose in a book.”

  I’m so deep inside your story, the sound of her voice makes me jump. I look up and see Vivienne. Even though the third floor’s a wasteland, I glance around to make sure nobody’s watching. Instinct, I guess.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  She rests her bony arms atop the carrel’s particleboard divider. She’s careful to keep the track marks turned away from me. Her pupils are tiny pinpricks in the vast brown craters of her eyes. “I miss you, baby boy.”

  I grind my teeth. “Are you stalking me?”

  “Don’t need an excuse to see my son!” She raises her voice, but her vocal chords are so singed it comes out raspy.

  I imagine wrapping my fingers around her stringy throat and squeezing. There’s so little left of her. It would be easy. Her windpipe would collapse like soft sand beneath the pressure of my thumbs. It would be an act of mercy. She stinks of cigarettes and the musty residue of whatever crusty couch she’s calling home. When I was a kid, Vivienne always smelled of sage. She used to make these smudge sticks and burn them every new place we went, part of her Cherokee tradition. She liked sweetgrass best, but that was hard to get, so she’d gather white sage from the litter-strewn shoulders of country highways. She said sage drove out bad spirits, and sweetgrass welcomed good ones. That was before she got so fucked up on scag she couldn’t tell the difference.

  “What do you want now?” I demand.

  She stares out the window, glazed confusion dimming her expression. When her gaze meets mine again, she looks lost. In spite of everything, a thin wisp of sympathy curls through me like smoke.

  I soften. “Do you need money? Want me to buy you a meal?”

  Her chapped lips grimace in confusion. She’s got no fucking idea why she’s here. I wonder when she last remembered to eat. She’s worse than I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something; her once strong, slender frame has turned on itself, leaving only a husk, desiccated and leathery as beef jerky. What a nightmare, to be Vivienne.

  “Something happened to Eva.” Her unfocused gaze drifts out the window again.

  That douses my brushfire of sympathy like a bucket of cold water.

  “What are you talking about?” I keep my voice calm and even, but inside, a dust devil’s spinning in crazy circles.

  “Eva.” She bites her lip. Tears tremble on her dark lashes, threatening to spill. “You loved her. I know you did.”

  “Why do you always have to bring her up?”

  “What did you do to her?” She widens her eyes, her words loud in the stillness. She’s got that weird, vacant quality, like a sleepwalker; her attention keeps wandering to some distant horizon only she can see.

  “It was years ago,” I snap.

  “You stopped being Waya.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “When you…” She trails off, glancing down at the jagged scars on my wrists.

  I force myself to breathe. “You’re hi
gh. You know how confused you get when you’re high, Vivienne.”

  “I’m your mother.” It comes out a weak, pathetic bleat. “Doesn’t that count for anything? Can’t you tell me the truth?”

  She’s not my mother. Not anymore. I severed that tie seven years ago.

  * * *

  Standing outside your office, I try to slow my pulse. You’re in there. I can hear you; I can see the muted light through the glass pane in your door, which you’ve covered with layers of filmy scarves. I knock three times and try to stop fidgeting.

  You crack open the door and peer out. When you see me, your face lights up. This is a stock phrase, something people say, but this time it’s literal. Your blue eyes and your pale, creamy skin are as translucent as the scarves behind you; it’s as if a spotlight’s been switched on inside you. You glow like a pearl. To think I’m the cause of that radiance makes my mouth go dry.

  “Sam. I’ve just finished reading. Your timing’s impeccable.” You let me in.

  I take a seat across from you. I sent you my novel a week ago, the very same day I finished it. Maybe that was rash. Most people would let it sit a week or two, re-read it, revise it a few times. I’m not most people.

  The truth is, Kate, I know it’s good. I feel it in my bones. Now, seeing your face, I’m certain you know it, too. Something inside me releases. I’ve been holding my breath all week and didn’t even know it.

  A delicious confidence flows into my limbs, warm as whiskey. “So, you read it. What did you think?”

  Your smile’s ten thousand watts of pure sunshine. “To be honest, I was terrified I’d hate it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.” You sound surprised, but I’m not offended. “I loved it. After I threw you at Maxine, I felt terrible.”

  “You didn’t think I was ready.” I lean back in your visitor’s chair and cross my ankle over my knee.