by Penny Reid
My smile faded as we stared at each other, the full meaning and implication of Greg’s use of the word beautiful registering in increments. His eyes warmed, and I realized his hand was resting on my hip, his fingertips slipping under the hem of my shirt. I shivered involuntarily at the contact.
When he spoke next his voice was a whisper, like he was sharing a secret. “I’ve often wondered why you are so beautiful when everyone else is merely pretty.”
I lifted my hand to his cheek, molded my palm against his strong jaw. “What do you think I’ve lost, Greg?”
He covered my hand with his and I mourned the loss of his light touches on my back. “Vanity.”
“Vanity?” His answer surprised and confused me.
“Yes. An aggrandized lack of self-awareness, a yearning to be coveted as the center of the universe. You’ve lost the desire for a self-centered manifest destiny.”
“And here I thought you were referring to my hair loss.” I tried to lighten the mood.
“No you didn’t,” he challenged, narrowing his eyes. Then apropos of nothing, he asked, “What was your childhood like?”
I shifted an inch away, my hand falling to the bed between us. “Um, fine.”
“Not happy. Not terrible. Just fine?”
“Yeah.”
“Define fine.”
I debated how to answer this question because I had very few positive feelings about my childhood. My mother was an irrational screamer who required constant management and handling. My father was hardly around due to his job, but I’m sure he loved me in his own way. I’d started college ignorant of the world. I would never have a fulfilling relationship with either of my parents.
Yet making complaints about my privileged upbringing struck me as petulant and entitled.
“I had a roof, clothes, food, safety. I have a younger sister I adore. I have parents who… do their best.”
Greg’s grin returned and I was happy to see it. “See? No vanity. You’ve lost the ability to care about bullshit that doesn’t matter. You’re a star, the center of a solar system, with no desire for the planets, asteroids, and moons caught in your gravitational field.”
“Who wants creepy planets anyway? Planets are amoebas, circling mindlessly in the vacuum of space. They’re star stalkers of the worst sort.”
He continued to look at me like I was a treasure. “Planets are creepy, when you put it like that.”
I looped a finger into his jeans pocket and tugged lightly. “What about you? What was your childhood like?”
His grin turned brittle and his attention moved to the right, beyond my head to the window behind me. “My parents’ house was in Mayfair, but I went to boarding school. My father was a banker and my mother was the daughter of an earl.”
Whoa…!
Mayfair— an exclusive area of West London, by the east edge of Hyde Park, in the City of Westminster—was one of the most expensive postal codes in the world, home of aristocrats and billionaires.
“An earl? Your grandfather is an-”
He spoke over me, giving me the sense that he needed to finish now that he’d started. “My father killed himself when I was fifteen. Apparently he was terribly corrupt, stole millions of dollars from people, very bad man. I have few memories of him, and none of them pleasant. My mother died the year after, an overdose. I was sent to live with my father’s half-sister in California when I was sixteen.”
“Oh my God.” I released the words on an exhale, unable to mask my astonished dismay and empathy. Reaching forward, I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him tightly, as though I could hug away his past hurts and disappointments.
After a moment, his arms came around me as well. He buried his head in my neck, therefore his words were muffled as he continued, “She lived in Compton, just outside of Los Angeles.”
I jerked my head back and stared at him, my mouth gaping. “Your aunt lived in Compton? The Compton? Like, the home of Dr. Dre and Easy-E?”
“The one and only.”
“You moved to Compton when you were sixteen? After living in Mayfair?”
“It was a very different environment, and yet also extremely similar. Did you know they have a cricket team?”
“The city of Compton has a cricket team?”
“Oh yes. It’s called the Compton Cricket Club, founded a few years ago at the Dome Village Homeless Community in L.A. I was one of the charter members when I was in high school. Gangsta, Gangsta by N.W.A. was our victory song.”
A disbelieving laugh tumbled from my lips. My Greg was a walking, talking contradiction.
“Another similarity, I’d come home after high school and frequently find random crackheads milling about outside, offering to prostitute themselves for a few dollars. Once or twice I found one in my room, going through my belongings, looking for something of value to steal.”
“How is that similar to living in Mayfair?”
“My mother’s friends often milled about, prostituting themselves for scraps of attention. And I used to find my mother—who was addicted to any number of prescription medications—going through my belongings when my father would cut her off, looking for something of value to steal.” He chuckled as he finished drawing the comparison, like his past was hilariously ironic rather than heartbreakingly tragic.
“Oh Greg…” I couldn’t laugh with him, so I kissed him. Soft, slow kisses, first on the lips, then on his forehead, temple, and jaw. His hand slipped beneath my shirt, gripping my bare back and holding me steady.
I heard him sigh, like a contented cat. And I thought I also heard him purr—not actually purr, more like a rumbly, pleased groan—before we were interrupted by a door slamming and raised voices in the suite area. I stiffened, reluctantly glancing up from Greg’s lovely neck.
I didn’t want to retreat. He smelled like hints of warm skin, oranges, and spicy aftershave, the good kind that makes the chest feel airy and light. But based on the volume of their drama, Dara and Hivan were only moments away from bursting into the room and kicking us out.
I pulled my hand through my hair and gave Greg an apologetic look. “I guess we should get going.”
“Why?”
“That’s Dara and Hivan.”
I moved to sit and he stopped me. “So?”
“So, they’re going to want to come in here to fight.”
“…so?” He paired this with a single eyebrow lift.
“So, we should leave.”
“Why should we leave? Don’t they do this all the time?”
“Well, yes. About once a week.”
Greg snorted, his arm tightening around my waist. “Then they should leave. We were here first.”
“But…” I faltered, because the reason was obvious. “They need privacy.”
Hivan’s bellowing greeted our ears, causing Greg to roll his eyes. “They don’t want privacy. They want an audience. A pair of pribbling base-court varlots.”
“Pribbling base-court varlots? What does that even mean?”
“It’s a Shakespearean insult. Roughly translated, it means selfish twats.”
I gave him a squinty grin despite Dara and Hivan’s shouting match outside the door.
Greg’s eyes flickered to my mouth and his tugged in response. “I’m not ready to leave yet.”
“We’ll go to the library,” I suggested, not wanting to leave either, but recognizing the futility of the desire.
“No. Hang the library. I want to stay here with you.” Abruptly, he rolled to the edge of the bed and stood. With his hands on his hips he glowered at all four corners of my room.
“What are you looking for?” I rose to a sitting position.
“Where are your tissues?”
“There.” I pointed to a wire shelf at the end of my bed.
He pulled three tissues from the box and handed them to me. “Pretend like you’re crying.”
“What?” I accepted the tissues and swung my feet to the floor.
“Just, do
it. When they come in, pretend like you’re crying.” He flicked his hand impatiently.
“Greg-”
He cut me off, shouting, “O serpent heart hid with a flowering face!” Then bent toward me and said in a rushed whisper, “Follow my lead.”
I stared at him askance, his words both odd and strangely familiar. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to reject this silliness or play along. But I had no time to ponder, because Dara opened the door. Her back was to us and Hivan was yelling at her.
I only caught the tail end of his rant, “… such bullshit, Dara! I was with you the entire time, you always see things that aren’t there. Stop being so fucking paranoid.”
“You were not with me the whole time. I saw you! You were all over her, Hivan! Don’t pretend like it didn’t happen. I am so done with you! I hate you!” Her screeching, tearful response reminded me to bring the tissue to my nose.
Greg pulled his hands through his hair and shouted—with feeling—over the last part of Dara’s accusation, “Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical! Dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!”
My eyes bulged because I realized what he was doing. I didn’t recognize the play, but I was almost certain he was quoting Shakespeare.
Hivan shifted uncomfortably, taking one step inside the room, “Uh… guys, could we have some privacy-”
Greg cut him off and stabbed an accusing finger at me. “Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honorable villain! Hmm? Speak! Or hadst thou to do in hell when thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend in moral paradise of such sweet flesh?”
My shoulders started to shake with silent laughter and I had to cover the lower half of my face with the tissue as I stared at him. He gnashed his teeth, threw his arms around with exaggerated movements. I shook my head at his ridiculous raging, which sounded oddly appropriate in his accent. He ignored me, seemingly lost to the scene he was reciting.
“Was ever book containing such vile matter so fairly bound? Oh no! No! I canst not stand it!” Greg ceased stomping around the room turned toward the open door, as though just noticing we had company. Both Dara and Hivan’s eyes widened and, in unison, the couple took a step back. Greg charged toward them, chasing them out of the room while continuing to shout-recite, “Oh, that deceit should dwell in such a gorgeous palace. Shame. Shame on thee!”
And with that, he slammed the door in both their faces.
Part 5: Why did the ninja cross the road?
Greg wanted me to do a backflip.
He didn’t pester me about it, not at all. But he did mention it on more than one occasion.
I agreed, since it was simple enough, on the condition he would be the only person to see it. I didn’t want anyone else to watch. My abilities felt personal to me now, and I didn’t like the idea of sharing that part of myself with strangers—not anymore. But the ground outside was frozen. We were surrounded by several feet of snow. The only space big enough and warm enough for any acrobatics was the lobby of the dorm.
During the second week of March a plan was devised. We decided to meet in the lobby at 3:00 a.m., and I would show him a backflip.
That day we met after classes, grabbed dinner at the café on campus, tried to study but ended up debating the merits of Hong Kong returning to Chinese rule, then parted ways around 11:30 p.m. My alarm clock went off at 2:50 a.m., giving me just enough time to rub the sleep from my eyes, brush my teeth at my desk, and pull on a sweatshirt. I wasn’t terribly surprised to find Greg standing outside the door to my suite. But I was impressed when he handed me a mug of hot coffee.
“I don’t know what a xenophobic hermit requires in the morning, so I made coffee.” His voice was hushed.
“Coffee works,” I whispered and took a sip of the black liquid, found it magnificently strong, “as long as it was made with the tears of women and children.”
Greg flashed me a grin that made my stomach do backflips. “Is there any other way to make coffee?”
I hid my smile with my cup and we walked side by side to the elevator. He pressed the call button, reached for my empty hand with his, and threaded our fingers together as we waited.
After Valentine's weekend things had settled down. In fact, they’d settled way down. No more games were played, which was great. We saw each other daily, ate together as much as we could. We went to the gym together, library, studied together—all good things…
We spend a ton of time together. Sometimes we’d kiss. But mostly we talked.
However, there was one change in particular about which I felt some confusion, and I didn’t know how to bring it up as a topic for discussion. During our first week officially together, he’d made silly sexual innuendos, puns, and witticisms. The more I was around him, the more they seemed habitual, unconsciously done. I’d been flustered at first—mostly because of the mental imagery they’d conjured—but just as I was growing used to this habit, he’d stopped.
He still flirted with me—at least I thought it was flirting—and we still kissed, but gone were the porn jokes and rhymes about copulation and masturbation.
I didn’t know how to broach this subject. Should I just say, Hey, you know what I miss? Your sex jokes.
So I waited, looking for a natural segue for the conversation.
“Are you nervous?”
I shook my head. “No. Just sleepy.”
“We can try to go back to sleep after.”
I considered the likelihood that I’d be able to go back to sleep after a cup of coffee and backflips.
Meanwhile, the elevator dinged. The doors slid open and I was surprised to see a group of girls revealed, all dressed in club attire. Among the pack was Gail, the blonde who’d been spreading false rumors about Dara having an abortion several weeks ago. She’d also been the one to tell me about Greg and Vanessa’s break up.
As soon as the girls saw us, their chatter abruptly ended. Seven pairs of eyes bounced back and forth between us for a protracted moment, nobody making any move to leave the elevator.
“Are you going down?” Greg asked, releasing my hand to hold the door. “Or are you getting off?”
“I’d go down with you,” one of the girls said, drawing a few giggles.
“Then you’d be sure to get off,” another slurred, making the rest of them laugh, this time in earnest.
“You’re all soused,” Greg said with no judgment. “You didn’t drive, did you?”
And that’s when I noticed their movements were sloppy as well as the smell of cigarette smoke and liquor wafting towards us. I recognized several of them as they filed out. I didn’t know if they recognized me because they seemed to only have eyes for Greg.
Except Gail. I met her gaze and gave her a small smile. She didn’t return it.
Gail stepped forward, her gait was unsteady. She was obviously drunk. “What are you two up to so late?”
I sensed Greg stiffen beside me when she spoke. I glanced at him, found him glaring at Gail with unfettered loathing.
“Stuff and things.” Greg waited until they’d all exited and then ushered me forward with a hand on my back.
“Couldn’t sleep?” She pressed, narrowing her eyes. “The dorm beds aren’t really made for two people.”
“Thank you for sharing your opinion, I’ll be sure to write about it in my diary.”
“You have a diary?”
“I’ll file it under, Fuckwit-opinions no one cares about.” His cool delivery made me wince on her behalf and I heard a few of the girls gasp. I didn’t think she’d appreciate the sympathy in my expression, so I kept my eyes on the floor of the elevator as the doors slid closed.
As we descended I heard Greg mutter under his breath, “Rank, rump-fed harpy.”
I twisted my mouth to the side and I considered him. “Another Shakespearean insult?”
“Yes,” he responded instantly, nearly growling.
I lifted my eyebrows and said not
hing. Obviously he wasn’t Gail’s biggest fan.
He appeared to struggle for a few moments before admitting, “This might be awkward for you to hear, but that girl—the blonde with the face like a frog—was very unkind to Vanessa when we broke up. She spread some nasty rumors, and I wish she were a man so I could call her out for it.”
“She spread rumors about your ex-girlfriend?” The only rumor Gail had told me about Vanessa —which turned out to be fact—was that she and Greg had broken up.
He nodded tightly, his mouth curved in an unhappy line. “Ignorant bullshit, stupid stuff. But there’s no reason to kick someone while they’re down.”
I surveyed his face, the drawn, stressed quality around his eyes. “If you want to talk about it, about…” I paused, hoping my intentions would be interpreted as supportive rather than prying. “If there’s anything you want to talk about—your break up with Vanessa included—I hope you know you can talk to me.”
“Thanks.” He gave me a half smile, his expression clearing. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very fair to her, and I… I lament that she was hurt.”
“She seemed nice.”
Even as I said the words—though they were honest—I felt a nonsensical sting of jealousy when he agreed, “She is nice.”
I gave him a flat smile, then glanced away. I didn’t know what I was doing. This conversation was weird and uncomfortable. Discussing his ex-girlfriends, and I assumed he had more than one, wasn’t something I wanted to do.
Luckily the elevator doors opened, giving me a reason to move away from him and the topic.
“I’ll go take a quick look around, make sure you don’t have an audience.” Greg walked past me, handing me his cup, his long stride carrying him to a hall that housed study rooms and led to an atrium at the other end of the building.
I placed both our coffee cups on a table near the periphery and examined the space. The lobby looked larger when empty, I estimated I had about forty feet of usable space. The floor was covered in compact carpet which would do nicely for a simple backflip. I toed off my slippers and removed my sweatshirt as Greg reappeared.