by Penny Reid
I swallowed, finding my throat and mouth very dry, and managed to croak, “Greg?”
“Open the door, would you?” came his muffled reply.
I took a step toward the door, but then stopped, hopping from foot to foot. “Greg, what are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“No, not in the building. What are you doing in my suite? It’s almost midnight.”
“I’m quite drunk,” he said. Despite his imbibed state, his tone was still flat and matter-of-fact. “And because I’m intoxicated, coming to your room in the middle of the night feels like the only thing to do.”
I shook my head, searching my room, my hands balling into fists. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know him, not really. We’d spoken only a handful of times. Opening the door to a very tall, very strong, and very drunk almost stranger in the middle of the night felt like the beginning of every cautionary tale young girls are told.
“Maybe you should go sleep it off,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
I heard a thud; something hit the door. I suspected it was his forehead.
He sounded pained when he said, “That’s a good idea. Send me away. Very wise of you.”
I flexed my fingers then balled them into fists again, waiting for some sound marking his retreat and mentally mourning my good sense. My brain liked this guy, my body liked this guy, and my heart was beyond infatuated with him.
But my intrinsic sensible nature wouldn’t allow me to do anything stupid. In all things I’ve always been well-reasoned.
Then he said, obviously having not moved from his spot at the door, “I want to be your first kiss.”
I rocked on my feet, the already dark room dimming and spinning slightly, and I pressed my hand to my violently fluttering stomach.
“Greg…” I breathed his name reflexively, shocked, and found myself at a loss for words.
My silence didn’t seem to matter to him because he said, sounding quite tortured, “I want to be your first everything.”
I reached my hand out and leaned against the dresser to my right, steadying myself.
Greg continued speaking to the door, his voice laced with an edge of frustration, “And it makes no fucking sense because I don’t even know you, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I saw you during the first week of class last semester, and, Christ, you’re gorgeous, but you’re so…different, sad…ethereal. You walked right past me for months, but I saw you every time. Though you hide it, I see the sorrow in you…or maybe you don’t know…”
My mind was reeling. I didn’t know which part of his speech to focus on first. But he didn’t give me any time to think about or react to his confession.
“We were in English composition together last semester, but you don’t know that because you never saw me.” Something soft connected with the door, and I felt certain he’d placed his palm against it. “I sat seven rows behind you and talked myself out of approaching you every bloody day because I had a girlfriend, and I owed her more than that, more than feigning friendship with you when that’s not what I wanted. And I’m a bastard for staying with Vanessa when I’m thinking about someone else. Did I mention that I’m very drunk?”
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me, and said, “Yes. You mentioned you are drunk.”
“Don’t let me in,” he said, his voice back to its emotionless baseline. “I might ravish you or force you into a hasty, unsuitable marriage.”
I choked a laugh then covered my face with my hands, finding my cheeks hot and flushed.
“I’m leaving now,” he said, then I heard him mumble something like, “…after making a total ass of myself.”
My heart jumped, like it wanted to leave my chest, and I took an automatic step toward the door. “Greg…” I searched for words but felt completely overwhelmed and lost. Finally I said, “Come back when you’re sober.”
He was quiet for several seconds, so quiet I feared that he’d already left, but then he said, “Promise me you won’t kiss anyone between now and tomorrow morning.”
I rolled my eyes and grinned, glancing at the ceiling. “I’ll make no promises until I speak to sober Greg.”
“Then I’ll sleep out here to keep would-be suitors away, as well as any other stalkers who wake you up in the middle of the night with declarations of unending devotion.”
“Don’t sleep out there.” I didn’t want him cramped and uncomfortable on the floor. I hated it when other people were uncomfortable; I couldn’t be comfortable if I knew someone else was uncomfortable.
“Then let me sleep in there. Your roommate is gone, yes?”
That was a bad idea…it was a bad idea that sounded really, really great.
“No.” I tried to force resolve into my tone. “Absolutely not.”
“Ah, well…it was worth a try. Likely would have worked if you were anyone else.” I pictured his crooked smile, a smile I could hear in his words. Even drunk he knew he was witty and virtually irresistible.
“Go to your room, and go to sleep.” I almost succeeded in sounding convinced.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not one of those drunks who feels ashamed of their behavior the next day…granted I might pretend to forget everything that’s just happened, but I’ll never feel ashamed.”
I sensed that he’d moved away from the door, and some instinct had me crossing to it, touching the doorknob.
“Fiona?”
I closed my eyes, imagining his face. My heart gave another painful tug. “Yes, Greg?”
“Tell me you feel it, too.”
I swallowed, hesitated, though I immediately knew what he meant. Despite his drunken leap of faith, I found the prospect of admitting anything of my own feelings to this man enormously frightening, another new experience.
With Mark and Jefferson admitting my like felt easy, no big deal; probably because my feelings for them were no big deal. Easy.
But instinct told me Greg wouldn’t be easy. As well, my feelings for Greg felt meaningful, messy, heady, intricate, and not entirely safe. He was not safe. Caution and sense told me that eventually these feelings would make me do something stupid, turn me into a fool, act against my best interests and better judgment.
Despite the warning bells, or maybe because they were so loud and persistent, I admitted the truth, “Yes, Greg. Yes, I feel it, too.”
He said nothing else. I heard the suite door close after him, and I let my forehead fall to the door. There was no way I was going to be able to go back to sleep.
Part 3: There once was a ninja from Nantucket…
“You’re a gymnast.”
I flinched, my hands flew up, and gasped with startled fright at the owner of the voice.
“Sorry.” Greg hovered at the entrance to the suite looking so handsome he made my chest hurt; I hadn’t heard him come in.
I released a calming breath, my heart still thundering, and laughed at myself. “No, no. It’s okay. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I saw he was wearing dark blue jeans that hung very nicely on his narrow hips and a long-sleeved grey thermal that made his eyes look almost black. Over his shoulder was a backpack. His dark hair was wet like he’d just showered, longish, yet achieved the effect of careless and wayward spikes. It needed a trim. I liked it.
“You’re a gymnast,” he repeated, edging further into the room.
I studied him, looking for some trace of a hangover or sign in his features that he was the same person who’d shown up the night before, knocking on my door and admitting he wanted to be my first everything.
But I didn’t…or I couldn’t. His gaze was back to its curious yet cautious state, the rest of his expression untroubled, calm.
“Yes, uh—well, no. I mean, I used to be a gymnast.”
I wasn’t calm. I couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. Once again I felt the palpable current, a crackling awareness, and this time I knew it wasn’t one-sided.
“How did you know?” My words
were breathless, and I was staring at him, unable to look away.
“Fern told me. Can you still do a somersault?”
I nodded, no longer trusting my voice.
“A back flip?”
I nodded.
He examined me for a long stretch, giving nothing of his own thoughts away. Meanwhile, I burned under his dark gaze. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his attention moved over my body, marked with suspicion or something like it. I was still wearing my workout clothes because Dara and Hivan were in my dorm room solving world hunger.
Just kidding. They were having sex. Loudly.
I’d come back from a late afternoon trip to the gym to find my door closed and locked, Dara’s suitcases piled up in the suite, and a sock on the doorknob.
I was waiting them out, rather than sneaking in, to grab some clothes.
Their sexcapades were gloriously awkward background music for my current conversation. I began to feel self-conscious of my yoga pants and sports bra in a way I’d never experienced before, wishing I’d left on my jacket.
Finally he said, “Prove it.”
“Prove it?” I croaked.
“A back flip. I want to see a back flip.”
I shook my head, holding his unreadable gaze, and feeling irritated by his complete lack of outward emotion, especially since I’d been waiting for him since early morning. When he hadn’t shown by 4:30 p.m., I’d decided to burn off my frustration with a workout.
It was now past dinner time, and I was currently experiencing an uncomfortable and unfamiliar sense of discomposure. My body felt taut and primed; my heart was racing like I’d just finished a marathon.
He continued to look me over. His perusal affected me, heat spreading up my chest and spine. Then Greg claimed Dara’s seat, setting his elbows on his long legs. He placed his backpack on the floor between his feet, and leaned toward me.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“About gymnastics?”
“About anything.”
I frowned at him; my heart hadn’t yet evened, its pace still furious, frantic.
Clearing my throat and pressing my palm against the uncomfortable rhythm, I asked, “What do you want to know?”
He stared at me, then responded, “Everything.”
“I’m not omniscient. I can’t tell you everything.”
This earned me a small smile, and his tone was softer when he asked, “Where did you grow up?”
“In Virginia, right outside of Washington, D.C.”
He nodded like this made sense.
Then I asked, “How old are you?” before I quite knew what I was doing.
He answered without skipping a beat, “I’m twenty-three. What do your parents do? Where do they work?” He then pulled a bottle of tequila out of his backpack, along with two shot glasses, precut lemon wedges, and a small container of salt, and set the items on the desk. He arranged them with a neat efficiency that was distracting.
I eyeballed the liquor, though he made no attempt to pour. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long, powerful legs in front of him, and rested one arm on the desk; his other large hand lay benignly on his thigh.
“My father is a vice president for one of the large defense contractors. My mother is a homemaker. What’s a twenty-three-year-old doing living in a dorm?”
“I was in the Marines. I served for three years. On-campus housing is a lot less expensive than an apartment, and I like the atmosphere.”
I couldn’t tell if this last part was true or sarcasm; I was too distracted by the fact-bomb he’d just detonated, that he’d been in the Marines. He’d been in the Marines for three years.
“The…the U.S. Marines?”
“Yes. The United States Marines.”
Greg seemed to sense that I needed a minute to absorb this information. He busied himself pouring two small shots of tequila and removing two lemon slices from the plastic bag before asking, “When did you stop doing gymnastics?”
“I was fourteen.” I was too stunned to ask another question. I was thinking back to our last conversation in this suite area, when he’d told me that he'd fought for what he believed in, that it hadn’t made any difference.
“Why did you stop?” he asked, reaching for my fingers where they rested on the open pages of my book.
I shook myself, recognized he was asking about gymnastics. “I got sick.” His touch sent a shock up my arm; I gritted my teeth to keep from shivering.
“Sick? What kind of sick?” With no ceremony, Greg licked the back of my hand near my thumb sending a tremor of something both deliciously warm and delightfully cold through me. I gave into the shiver. He ignored it and sprinkled salt on the wet patch.
“I had a brain tumor.” I hadn’t meant to be so forthright, but my body was humming, ridiculously seized by the aftereffects of his tongue against my skin.
His hands stilled. In fact, everything about him stilled, and his eyes were affixed to my knuckles. His fingers tightened around mine.
“But you’re okay now?”
I nodded even though he wasn’t looking at my face. “Yes. I’m okay for now.”
Greg’s thumb stroked my index finger. He seemed to be meditating on it. His attention paired with Dara and Hivan’s enthusiastic grunts and cries of pleasure were making me increasingly uncomfortable and aware of how very little clothing I was wearing.
My dissonance regarding having Greg here, alone with me, with two shots of tequila was growing. Especially since he’d just broken up with his girlfriend of over a year.
My attraction to him in that moment was heady, almost painful, just like I’d feared. I felt foolish.
“Greg,” I withdrew my hand and placed it back on the open pages of my book. “Why are you here?”
“I broke up with Vanessa.” His eyes met mine, and they matched his flat, matter-of-fact tone. He licked the skin adjacent to his thumb, holding my gaze.
“I know,” I said on an exhale.
We stared at each other for a long moment.
He broke the silence, pouring salt on the back of his hand. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”
I shook my head. “It’s none of my business.”
He didn’t seem to like my answer because his mouth curved into a frown. Abruptly, Greg picked up a shot of tequila and handed it to me. I accepted it, glanced at the shot glass, then back at him. His attention made me feel like I was under a microscope.
“How old are you, Fiona?”
“I’m eighteen.”
His eyes moved between mine. “Were you a good gymnast?”
“Yes. Very good.”
“How good?”
“I placed second at the World Championships when I was thirteen and qualified for Team USA.”
“Olympics?”
“Yes.”
“And then you got sick.”
“That’s right.”
“And how long were you sick?”
“Two and a half years.”
“Chemotherapy?”
“No. Radiation.”
“For two years?”
“Two and a half years.”
Greg’s jaw flexed; I saw the muscle at his temple jump before he said, “I’m a selfish bastard. You should know that about me.”
I set the liquor down on the desk, tilted my head to the side, watching him. “What makes you think so?”
“Because I look at you, and I think, you and me, we’re going to get married one day. And then, if you’re a very good wife…” His eyes skated over my face as he paused, and it felt like a loving caress; but it also felt possessive and dangerous. His cadence dropped, deepened, as his stare settled on my lips. “If you’re a very good wife, we’ll have a mortgage.”
I blinked. The lull of his voice masked the meaning of his words for a split second.
“A mortgage?”
He nodded. “Yes. And several children and perhaps a dog.”
I’m sure I was looking at him like h
e was crazy, and I followed my thoughts through with words, “You’re crazy.”
He nodded again. “I am.”
“And abrupt and abrasive.”
This earned me a pleased smile that stretched all the way to his eyes, making them warm and inviting. The effect left me breathless again.
“Yes. I’m also known for my inappropriate sense of humor, offensive jokes, and callous treatment of sensitive topics. I’m a sore loser and an even worse winner.”
I shook my head at him, unable to help my smile. “Shouldn’t you be playing up your good points? Isn’t that what guys do when they’re interested in a girl?”
“But you’ve never been kissed,” he responded, his tone still flat but his eyes dancing with mischief, “and you’ve never dated. This is my chance to ruin you for anyone else.”
“By telling me all about how terrible you are?”
“By being honest. By playing no games. When I tell you that I’m a selfish bastard, I mean it. And when I tell you that you’re wonderful and amazing and stunning and definitely the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met, you’ll know I mean that, too.”
My smile fell because I couldn’t sustain it under the weight of his impassioned words, and my stupid heart thundered, galloped, beat out a violent staccato. I held perfectly still, watching him, suspicious of the feelings he’d stirred because they felt too big, irrational and uncontrollable.
I swallowed and managed to whisper, “You don’t know me.”
“Not all of you…” his eyes drifted to my lips and seemed to sharpen, “but I will.”
“I have a date tomorrow, with Mark from art history,” I said dumbly. The words felt like a sad little shield against his onslaught of honesty.
“I know.”
“I’m going.”
“I know. You should.”
I could barely breathe.
“You’re confusing me,” I said.
“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out. And I…I will be patient.”
Abruptly, I was aware that the suite had fallen silent; Dara and Hivan’s activities had reached their natural conclusion. Comprehending this, I found I couldn’t hold Greg’s stare. My body felt needy, tight, straining, and restless. I didn’t know what to do with myself.