Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  I was in it.

  If I knew anything to be true, it was this: I wasn’t worthy of Josh Kramer’s attention. But for some reason, he was giving it to me anyway.

  And darn it all if I wasn’t going to take it.

  “But I thought we were going to spend Christmas alone!”

  It’s not a question; it’s an accusation. Her voice is sharp and snappy, like a whip. A whip she’s fashioned into a lasso in order to snare Adair’s balls into a vice and pinch tight. Her footsteps are sharp and snappy, too—heels click-clacking against the kitchen’s cracked linoleum floor as she paces from one end of the room to the other. I imagine her hands flying about, invisible whip-turned-lasso lashing in her agitated grip.

  Snap-whoosh-pull-tug.

  Gabe trots into my room and jumps up on the bed, turning three times before plopping down and tucking his nose under his tail. His eyes flick up at me and I can almost hear him say, Can you believe that bitch?

  For the first time in hours, I smile. Reaching down to scratch his head, I make cross eyes at him. “She’s crazy, huh?”

  I pop in my ear buds and turn the volume up on my phone, choosing a hard rock playlist that screams in my ears, hoping it will be enough to block out the argument. The room I’m staying in for the next two and a half weeks is on the other end of the long house, and the fact that I can still hear Adair’s latest fling curse a steady stream of obscenities at him says something.

  She’s pissed that I’m here.

  Well, Bianca Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is, if it’s any conciliation, I’m not thrilled about it, either.

  Clint’s minimalist text this morning hit the nail on the head. My place had flooded. A pipe burst under the kitchen sink, unleashing a steady flow that quickly spread across my kitchen floor and crept into the living room, turning the faded green carpet into a swampy, mushy mess. My furniture isn’t grand or luxurious, but it’s all I have. And now, with my couch and floral-patterned recliner soppy from the deluge, and my cheap particle board television stand toppled from the give in the drenched carpet, and my new-to-me television with all the best apps (Netflix, Hulu, Vudu) cracked and waterlogged, I’m SOL. The only ray of light in this dim situation is that, due to the weird layout of my apartment, the water only trickled into my bedroom, thus saving my bed, desk, laptop, and photography equipment. So really, in the grand scheme of things, I should be jumping for joy right now.

  Clint, on the other hand, is not jumping for joy. His game console—Xbox, PlayStation, freaking Atari for all I know—is now a worthless mess of drowned wires and useless parts. He’s already texted me the cost of the replacement, which isn’t really a replacement at all since the one he brought to my place when he moved in was at least four years old and totally ancient compared to the newest models. My eyes bulged when I saw the price, and it took everything I had not to throw my phone across the room, marking up Adair’s wall and shattering my screen.

  When I called Adair to see if I could bum one of his spare bedrooms until this mess was cleared up, I’d felt like an awful person for not asking if Clint could stay, too. But with the history between the two men, I knew there was no way either one would go for it. Still, to not have asked, to not have even wanted to ask, made the guilt creep in and wrap around my middle like a fat boa constrictor intent on squeezing the life out of his dinner as fast as he could. But after reading Clint’s text and following the link to the console he wanted me to buy him, all concern for him went out the window. He’s currently holed up with a couple of his buddies, living like a thirty-two-year-old frat boy in a house with three other frat boy wannabes. I’ve only been to the place once, and that alone was one time too many. It’s party central for adults who don’t want to grow up. Not to mention, the entire house smells like feet.

  There is, at least, one thing I find funny about this whole scenario, though. Clint was asleep when it all started, only waking when the water rose up to meet the hand he had flung over the side of the couch. I can just picture him lying there, wet hand brushing the cobwebs of sleep from his face and then, realizing that his hand is wet for cyrin’ out loud, springing from the couch into frigid, ankle-deep water and sloshing around in circles as his groggy mind—sometimes not much slower than his waking mind, no offense—struggled to catch up with his surroundings.

  I giggle, bending to clutch my stomach as it turns into a full-fledged belly laugh.

  A tap on my shoulder startles me so much I yelp, the laugh turning into an all-out shriek. I spin around, old cotton underpants with a pair of Smurfs frolicking on the butt clutched in one hand, and practically smack my nose into Adair’s beard.

  My eyes trail down before they move up. He’s wearing a blue and green flannel, the soft material straining slightly over his wide shoulders, and a thought hits me, one so absurd that I almost start laughing again. I realize with a giddy sort of insanity that if I wanted to curl my finger over those strong planes and do chin-ups, I could. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, which he currently has crossed in front of his hard chest. When I realize I’m gawking, I reluctantly meet his gaze, a flush creeping up my neck.

  There’s no doubt about it. The man is one sexy mutha.

  His mouth works, but his voice is barely a rumble. Music—a jumble of instruments and screeching voices—fades back into my reality, like distant sirens that grow louder and more head-splitting the closer they get. Instinct draws my hands to my ears, and it’s only then that I realize I’m still wearing my ear buds. I pull them out and smile up like a dope.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Not really in the mood for any Clint bashing at the moment, I lie. “Nothing. Just,” I wave my phone, “something I was listening to.” I toss it onto my bed and, as discreetly as I can, ball up my ridiculous underpants into my palm. When I turn back to Adair, he’s watching me, brow cocked, a smirk playing on his lips. He makes no qualms about hiding the fact that he’s appraising my outfit. I’m still dressed for work: high-waisted pencil skirt, silk blouse, nylons, nude pumps. My hair is pulled back in a tight twist and my glasses have been sliding down my nose all day. I tap a nervous little rhythm with my toe. “Anyway, you were saying?”

  His eyes roam my face for a moment, gliding over my skin like a soft caress. When they land on my lips and stay there, I swear the room’s temperature rises twenty degrees. I bite my lip and look away, and Adair clears his throat. “I was just going to order some dinner and thought I’d see if you wanted anything.”

  I glance out the window, notice the sun has already sunk below the horizon, and realize how late it is. Or early, depending on one’s point of view, considering it gets dark here around four-thirty this time of year. With the disaster at my apartment and dealing with my landlord and trying to get a hold of someone at my insurance company this close to holiday break, the only thing I’ve managed to get in me today is coffee. And sugar and cream do not a meal make.

  Before I can answer, my stomach grumbles—a low, long groan that tangles with the silence—making Adair laugh and me cringe in embarrassment.

  I’m always hungry. And he knows it.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He raises his brows. “I’m ordering from Bob Roe’s. You want anything in particular? Like, say…a taco pizza?” He draws the words out, suggestive and seductive, sort of the way I like to draw out my relationship with said pie. Taco pizza from Bob Roe’s Point After is my favorite, and he knows it. I’m opening my mouth to answer when he waves his hand, effectively shushing me as he backs out of the room. “Nah, never mind. You probably don’t want a taco pizza, do you? I’ll just order a garbage, extra onions and anchovies…”

  “Adair!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I know how you feel about anchovies.” He nods, his expression uncharacteristically serious as he taps his lips, remembering my aversion to any type of pizza other than taco. “Pizza with everything for me and just a salad for you, then?” He cocks a finger at me and winks. “Got it.”

  “You’re
an ass,” I say, trying but failing to hide my smile. Pure instinct draws my arm back and, before I even remember what I’m holding in my hands, I chuck my underpants across the room. They smack Adair in the head and dangle across his face, the waistband catching in his hair. He stands stock still, arms hanging loosely at his sides. A blue eye sparkles at me from behind a leg hole.

  “Well, doll. What do ya know? Looks like I’ve finally found a way into your pants.”

  I feel like one of those cartoon characters who eats dinner too fast and then has a bulge in his stomach the size of a beach ball when he’s through. The stretchy band of my boxer shorts are cutting into my abdomen, hot little pin pricks digging into my skin and leaving pink welts in my flesh. I reach behind me and grab the throw that’s resting across the back of the couch and fling it over my lower half in an effort to hide the ten pounds I gained after inhaling my dinner.

  Next to me, Adair plucks the last slice of taco pizza from the box, drops it onto a plate, and holds it up, his eyes questioning. I wave it away. “God, no. I’m stuffed.”

  He chuckles, settling back and taking a big bite.

  I tip my head back and appraise his minimalist décor. The walls are bland, no framed photos of friends or family from back home. Just empty spaces, the bare necessities. “Why didn’t you get a tree this year?” I look over at him. “You never decorate, do you?”

  “Why would I go through all the trouble of putting up a tree when it’s just me here?”

  I shrug. He has a point. I didn’t do one this year, either. A realization that makes me feel dreary. My energy this season has been lumpy and damp, sort of like when I have to spend a cold, rainy day at work instead of where I’d really like to be—at home on the couch with a good book—and I can’t seem to get motivated no matter how much sugar-flavored coffee I drink.

  In front of us, an old episode of The Office is playing. And, like I do every time I watch the show, I can’t help but compare the characters to the people in my own office. Sandy is Dwight, for sure.

  Somehow, it’s not so funny when you have to put up with this shit in real life.

  “You’re so lucky,” I sigh.

  Adair swallows the last of the pie and slides his eyes my way. “And why is that?”

  He’s wearing flannel pajama pants, the material covered in stars, constellations and planets, and I study the pattern all the way down to his bare feet, which are propped up on his old coffee table. The pants are half ridiculous, half sexy. On Adair, anyway.

  “Bets?” he prompts.

  I sigh again, kicking my legs out from under the throw. “You don’t work in an office. You’re not tied to a desk, a chair. The same small space day after day. You don’t answer to anyone. You’re totally free to,” I flutter my fingers, “flit about.”

  “Flit about.” He repeats, then laughs. “I like that. Next time I’m flitting about”—he waggles his fingers— “at the brewery, I’ll think of you, lass.”

  I half-heartedly backhand his arm. “Don’t make fun of me.” But I smile, because I kinda sorta like it.

  “You make it so easy, though,” he says, nudging me back. His palm pushes against my shoulder, the sleeve of my t-shirt sliding up with the movement. When he pulls his hand away, my skin tingles. Then he turns serious. “I thought you liked your boss?”

  “I do. Gus is pretty much the only thing that keeps me sane at work. And it’s not like I hate my co-workers or anything. Although, Sandy can go piss up a rope.”

  Adair smirks. “Harsh.”

  “She asked me today if I was still doing free photography sessions. When I told her no, she brushed me off, like I’m not worth paying for.”

  I’m not worth anything.

  “That’s bullshit.” Adair spits the words out, his voice acid. It takes a lot to ruffle the man’s feathers, but if someone—anyone—disses one of his friends, the talons come out.

  I shrug, wishing I hadn’t said anything. “It is what it is.”

  But Adair shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, his tone relaying the fact that he’s still pissed. “You’re wrong.” When I open my mouth to argue, he holds up a hand. He turns his entire body my way, hitching one leg up onto the couch, his expression telling me he means business. “And I fucking hate it when you say that.” His eyes flash, angry blue orbs filled with heat.

  I look away, shrinking back into the couch cushions and focusing instead on the television. Confrontation sucks, and I avoid it at all costs.

  Adair picks up the remote and mutes the volume. “Hey,” he says, his voice softening.

  I refuse to look at him.

  “Betsy.” I feel his hand on mine, fingers slipping through to entwine with my own. “I’m sorry if I sound… harsh.”

  I shrug again. If I have to, I’ll just go through the rest of my life communicating with my shoulders. One shrug for yes, two shrugs for no.

  Ugh. I’m being a baby, and I know it.

  Adair ignores me ignoring him and continues to talk like I’m hanging on to his every word. “It is what it is. Look, I know that’s your life’s motto and all, but I hate that it is. I really, really fucking hate it.” He chuckles, though the sound is more despondent than cheerful. “Because it’s just so… So… Apathetic.”

  I whip my head his way. “Apathetic, huh? Pretty big word there, hot stuff.”

  His lips twist like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “It is what it is is bullshit. If you don’t like what is, then change it.”

  “Some things can’t be changed, Adair.” His hand is still wrapped around mine, so I slide it from his grip. “Some things just are.”

  “Well, I beg to differ.”

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” I sing-song, my voice offkey. Reaching over, I snag the remote from his lap and turn up the volume.

  Adair snatches it back and hits mute again before tucking the remote down his pants. “Courage to change the things I can,” he quotes back at me.

  I cross my arms and huff. “And the wisdom to know the difference,” I finish. “Are we done now?”

  Now it’s Adair’s turn to shrug. “I’ll never be done with you, doll.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. We’re nothing if not the epitome of maturity when we’re together.

  We’re quiet for a moment, our attention directed at the muted television. “You’re worth something, you know.” Adair leans his elbow on the back of the couch, tilting his head into his hand. “Your pictures are good, Betsy. And anyone who can’t see that isn’t worth your time.”

  “Well, it seems no one is worth my time, then.”

  Adair studies me for a moment. It makes me uncomfortable, so I lean forward and grab my half-finished can of pop from the coffee table.

  “You need to grab the bull by the balls.”

  I’m mid-swig when he says this, and I choke back a laugh. “What?” I sputter.

  “Go big or go home,” he clarifies. “With your photography. You don’t advertise, you don’t promote your work. So far, you’ve only been relying on word of mouth. And it’s not working. There’s nothing wrong with your style, but the right people aren’t seeing it. They don’t even know you’re out there.”

  “That costs money,” I say, bristling. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. But what he doesn’t understand is that while I know this, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Takes money to make money.”

  I hold up my hand. “No. You know what? Just… no. I hate when you say that.”

  He frowns. “Well, it’s true.”

  My face is flushed, though this time it isn’t due to my sad little infatuation with my best friend. I’m angry. “Do you really think I don’t know that?” I fume. “I know advertising is worth its weight in gold. But unfortunately, I don’t have any gold at the moment. Plus,” I add, on a roll, my excuses falling from my lips one after another, “I don’t have all the equipment I
need to be advertising just yet. I’m still at least a camera short to be offering weddings. I mean, what would I do if my one camera crapped out on the day of someone’s wedding? What am I supposed to say? ‘Oh, sorry. My camera broke and I don’t have a backup, so I have no way to document the most important day of your life. But you can always settle for cell phone pictures, right?’” I snort. “Yeah, that would go over real well. I can just see my Yelp reviews now.”

  The cost of photography gear is something I’ve lamented over since I started. Photography isn’t a cheap hobby, and the cost to get the appropriate gear to actually turn it into a business is damn near astronomical. Right now, I have one camera (that’s pushing three years old) and two lenses. That’s it.

  “No, I don’t suppose that would go over well,” he agrees. “And you may not have gold. But you have friends. One in particular who is offering to help. If you lived here with me and didn’t have to pay rent, just think of how much you’d be able to invest.”

  “It’s not just the money, Adair. I don’t really have the time, either. With working and the soup kitchen and…” I let my voice trail off, knowing I’m just grasping at straws now. I’ve been volunteering at the soup kitchen since my senior year in high school. And while I used to love it, lately it’s become more of a chore. I’ve been avoiding signing up for shifts, the call of the couch and numbing out in front of the television hard to ignore.

  “Since you can’t give up your job, maybe you could give up volunteering. Just,” he holds up a finger when he sees me about to protest, “for the time being.”

  “Um, wouldn’t that be kind of selfish?”

  Adair shakes his head. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying that you can’t pour from an empty cup? My granny said that all the time. She was a stickler about self-care. Said you can’t draw water from a dried well. In her opinion, tending to others before yourself was more selfish than doing it the other way around. Smart bird, she was.”