by S. E. Law
“Well, that was awkward,” I say, figuring that acknowledging the situation is better than ignoring it.
Thankfully, he laughs.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one to say it.” Kevin grins at me; his smile is endearingly lopsided. I warm up to him the tiniest bit.
I offer him my hand.
“I’m Bailey,” I say.
He shakes it.
“Kevin, although you already knew that. Are you a freshman?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Sophomore. History major.”
“I’m still undecided,” I tell him. “I’d love to go into interior design but I’m not sure what to study here to get me there. What do you want to do with a history major?”
Before I know it, we’re chatting easily, albeit loudly to be heard over the music’s pounding bass line. At one point, I spot Kara and Melanie across the room, staring; they both give me thumbs-up when I catch them. I suddenly grow uncomfortable and take a generous sip of the drink I had grabbed. What are they expecting to happen? What is Kevin expecting? What am I?
“Have you worked in interior design before?” Kevin asks, coaxing me out of my worries.
“No,” I reply, fidgeting with the strap of my dress. “I was going to work part-time before I came here but no one would hire me for only a few months.” Christopher contacted several interior designers, just like he had promised me he would. While none of the opportunities panned out, I still love him for trying, and for putting so much effort into something just to make me happy.
Christopher. A lump gathers in my throat like a stone I accidentally swallowed. I take another frantic gulp of my drink. Why would he do so many nice things for me and then not even bother to respond to my letter? What did I say that upset him, or embarrassed him, or stunned him into radio silence? I can’t begin to understand it. For days, I reread the letter over and over, scouring each line for unintentional mistakes. All I found was my heart, bled dry onto the paper. Maybe that repulsed him. Maybe he was disgusted by me.
“Hey, are you okay?” Kevin looks at me with concern, and gently touches me on the arm. Suddenly, an image of Christopher looking at me with that same expression, touching me in the same way, dances tantalizingly in my field of vision. It’s all too much, now, the noise and the heat and the alcohol and the expectations. I choke and sputter on my drink, shaking my head, tears running down my face.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” I say, and, without another word, I’m out the door and back into the night.
It’s only when I’m safely back in my room that I let myself fall apart. I fall to my knees, gasping for breath as my entire body is wracked with sobs. A chasm has opened in my chest, where my heart used to be, and nothing can fill it. I hug a pillow to my chest as tightly as I can, and, eventually, still on the floor, fall into a fitful sleep.
10
Christopher
* * *
I’m going 85 m.p.h. down the highway, undoubtedly attracting some unwanted attention in my cherry red BMW. But I’m a man on a mission, one more important to me than any I’ve had before. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let something as arbitrary as speed limits slow me down.
“How’s Bailey doing at school?” I had asked Rick last night, as casually as possible, while we were watching the game. I hadn’t heard many updates lately, and she had been in classes for several months now. It surprised me that she hadn’t reached out to me, but I hadn’t initiated conversation either, not wanting to interrupt her studies or college experience.
“I don’t know,” Rick had sighed, taking a swig of his beer. “She doesn’t call me very often, and when she does, she sounds depressed as hell. I’m worried that sending her to school wasn’t the best idea.”
“Does she still want to go into interior design?”
Rick cast me a sideways glance, and I curse inwardly at my own stupidity.
“Did she tell you that?” he asks. “I had no idea.”
“I thought you had mentioned it to me before,” I lied. “Or maybe she told me when I brought her dinner one of those times you were working late in the ER.”
“I don’t know,” Rick admitted, massaging his temples. “I feel like I barely know her at all these days. I just hope she’s okay.”
I left, not knowing what to think. Then this morning, a letter showed up in my mailbox, postmarked three months earlier.
I suddenly knew exactly why Bailey had been so depressed.
My eyes scanned the letter, my heart pounding in my chest. I canceled all my meetings for the day and jumped in the car, and here I am, careening down the highway like a bat out of hell. My hands on the steering wheel are tightly clenched; I shake them out one by one, willing myself to be calm, chill, and collected. I’m always baffled at how Bailey has this effect on me--in any other situation, I’m in charge, but when it comes to her, I’m reduced to anxiety. Wondering how she is. Wondering what she’s feeling.
I pull into campus and realize I have no idea where she is. Shit. I park in the visitor’s lot and pull out my cell phone.
Hey Kara, I type. Bailey and Kara have been friends for years; I have her number from when I helped Rick coordinate a surprise party for Bailey years ago. I’m sure Kara will be baffled when my name appears on her phone, but I don’t have any other option. This is Christopher Maddox. We organized a party for Bailey a long time ago. I’m bringing Bailey something from her dad. Do you know where she is?
I wait in agony, running through every possible way that this could be a massive failure. Kara could be asleep. Kara could not know where Bailey is. Kara could be creeped out by my texting and not respond.
Omg hi! My phone dings as Kara’s response appears on the screen. That’s so sweet! I’m sure she’ll be excited to see you. She informs me that Bailey is in class, even providing the classroom building and room number, and warns me that I’ll have to go through security first.
When I approach the security desk, the woman sitting there gives me an up-and-down look that I’m all too familiar with. I remove my Armani sunglasses and flash her my most charming smile.
“I’m dropping something off for a student,” I tell her. “I need a visitor’s pass. My name is Christopher Maddox.”
“Are you the student’s father?” the woman asks.
Not quite.
“A family friend,” I clarify.
“Can I page the student to verify your identity?”
I place my hands on the desk and lean forward. My eyes flicker to her name tag.
“Look, Sharon, it’s her birthday today, and I’m just helping her dad surprise her. You can look it up in the system.” I’m confident by the way she smiles at me that she won’t bother.
I’m right.
“That’s sweet of you, Mr. Maddox. Here’s a visitor pass.”
I thank her, grab a sloppily folded campus map, and head out. I’ll call the school about their lax security policies later. Right now, I just need to find Bailey.
I follow the map using Kara’s texted instructions and find myself standing before a squat brick building. To its right is a courtyard where several students mill about or lay on blankets. I wonder if Bailey is friends with any of them. I suppose I’ll find out very soon.
When I enter the building, I recognize an unfamiliar emotion: worry. I’m a confident man; I wouldn’t have advanced so far in my life and career if that weren’t the case. However, as I walk down the hall to Bailey’s classroom, I wipe my palms on my jeans, and then dash a bead of sweat from my brow. I have no idea how she’ll react to seeing me for the first time in three months--especially three months of not hearing from me after sending a heartfelt letter. Will her feelings still be the same?
Taking a deep breath, I stop outside the door of her classroom, gather my composure, and open the door.
Any conversation that was happening prior to my arrival ceases immediately. A professor is sitting at a desk in the front of the room; the students appear to
be reading something in small groups. As soon as I open the door, though, every head turns to look at me. Forty pairs of eyes widen and narrow at the unfamiliar stranger in the doorway.
One pair of eyes, though, recognizes me immediately.
“Christopher?” Bailey stammers, looking for all the world like she may pass out. I resist the urge to run to her, and instead lock eyes with the professor.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” I say, as casually as I can. “Bailey, can I speak with you for a moment?”
“No,” Bailey says immediately. I swallow, hard. That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for. “No,” she repeats, shaking her head, blinking furiously as if trying not to cry. “I’m busy. I’m working. I can’t talk to you right now.”
“It’s about your dad,” I lie. “Can you spare just a second?”
When I mention Rick, she blanches, and I immediately hate myself for causing her more distress. However, it works. She whispers something to a classmate and then rushes towards me, past me, and out of the room. I close the door quietly, not wanting to cause any further disturbances.
“What the fuck are you doing here? What’s wrong with my dad?” Bailey explodes the second the door closes. I’ve never seen her this visibly angry. I want to gather her into my arms and kiss her with all the passion I’ve had pent up for three months. As I reach out to her, though, she flinches, and I stop cold.
“Rick is fine,” I say, and watch the tiniest amount of tension leave her body. “I just needed to say something to get you to speak with me.”
“I don’t want to speak to you,” Bailey seethes, her voice rising again. “How dare you come here! My dad is paying good money for my tuition, and you interrupt my class--how did you even know where I was?!”
“Bailey,” I say, holding up both palms in a gesture of peace. “I’m sorry. Will you please just come outside with me for a few minutes? I drove all the way here to talk to you. You know I wouldn’t have done that if it wasn’t important.”
She acknowledges the logic of this by pressing her lips even more tightly together. I hold my breath as she stares at me, her eyes no longer full of tears but fire, that familiar flame I’ve watched blaze so many times before. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Bailey gives me a curt nod. I nod back, and we walk in silence down the hallway and out the main door.
I allow myself a sideways glance to survey her in the sunlight. She’s wearing a sundress I’ve seen her in many times before, blue with yellow flowers, that hugs her breasts and waist and flares out at the hips. Her dark brown curls cascade freely down her delicately freckled shoulders, nearly to the small of her back, now. Her expression is still stony, but I notice her own gaze flit to the side to look at me, before her face flushes red and she looks back down at the ground.
We walk into the courtyard, where now only one or two other people are present. I sit on an iron bench, and gesture for her to sit beside me. For a second, I think she’ll say no--her dark eyes flash, her lips still compressed into a thin line. After a few moments of my heart pounding in my ears, she finally sits, carefully smoothing out her dress instead of looking at me.
“Okay,” she says, when I don’t say anything, mesmerized just by staring at her profile. She takes a shaky breath. “Why are you here, Christopher?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out her letter. She still won’t look at me, so I murmur, “Bailey.”
She looks. Her eyes widen and her lips part as her gaze darts between the letter and my face. “Oh, my God,” she whispers. “If… If you’re upset about it, or something, I’m really sorry. I--”
“Sweetheart, I just got this today,” I say, my voice low.
She stares at me, her face oscillating from confusion to shock and back again. “What?”
“I don’t know why,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Fucking USPS delivered it three months late.”
“But--what--just today?” Bailey whispers, her eyes huge and filling with tears.
“Just today,” I confirm.
“Then--why--”
I tuck a curl behind her ear in a familiar gesture; almost unconsciously, it seems, she leans into my hand, her eyes fluttering closed. “I had to see you,” I say, no longer aware of anything around us, only watching her. “I had to tell you that I feel the same way.”
Her eyes snap open as if she’s been electrocuted. A single tear escapes and begins to roll down her face; I catch it with my thumb, and then capture her hand in mine, pressing the back of it to my lips.
“Oh, my God,” she whispers. “Christopher… When you didn’t respond, I--I thought you didn’t…”
“I am so sorry, Bailey,” I say, my voice nearly breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I would never, ever do anything to hurt you. Don’t you know that?”
With a quiet sob, she crumples into my chest, and I finally get to take her into my arms. God, the warmth of her, the smell of her, all of it is enough to drive me crazy, and I breathe her in--the smell of her perfume, her shampoo, her hair. Her skin, so soft, so smooth, so irresistible; I press a gentle kiss behind her ear, on her neck, until she turns her face up and I kiss her soft lips for the first time in months. In this moment, sitting on an uncomfortable park bench on an unfamiliar college campus, I could die the happiest man on the planet.
She breathes my name, and I kiss each corner of her mouth, the tip of her nose, and then both of her closed trembling eyelids.
“Are you okay?” I ask, rubbing her back in slow, steady circles.
She nods and looks back up at me, her expression still tremulous. “What about my dad?” she whispers.
What about Rick? I’ve thought about this for hours, days, maybe even weeks, and have come to a firm conclusion. I gently tilt her chin up.
“You’re an adult, Bailey,” I say, wiping another tear from her cheek. “You can make your own decisions, and so can I. Rick is my best friend. But if I have to choose… I choose you. I’d choose you every time.”
Bailey smiles tremulously, and I can’t help it--I do, too, because I mean what I’m saying. She kisses me again, and I feel her melt into my arms.
“We’ll work it out somehow,” she murmurs, and I believe her. “Together.”
11
Bailey
* * *
Excitement to come home for the holidays was a feeling I never understood until I went away for college. Now, I’m beyond glad to be back in my own room, my own bed, and my own house. Everything I took for granted for so many years--my mattress, our dishwasher, home-cooked meals--now seems like the very height of luxury. Even better, today is Thanksgiving, meaning that savory scents are wafting throughout the house, thanks to my dad’s delicious cooking.
Most exciting of all, Christopher is coming over for Thanksgiving dinner, like he always does.
Less exciting, and more terrifying: we’re going to tell my dad about our relationship.
We’ve agonized over this decision for weeks, discussing it over many texts and late-night phone calls. Kara was the first person I told while we walked to class one day, and she was so stunned that she ran into a wall. Since then, however, she’s been nothing but supportive, albeit often gently ribbing me for not telling her sooner. It seems natural that the next person we disclose our relationship status to should be my father.
I put down the book I’ve been reading, leaning back against my pillows. Checking my phone, I grin when I see I have a text from the love of my life.
Looking forward to mashed potatoes tonight… And you, of course.
I laugh. That man sure has some gall to tease me for my appetite when his is even more gargantuan.
Another text comes in before I can respond. You’re still okay with the plan, baby?
I swallow hard, listening to Rick whistle in the kitchen as he cooks. There’s no use imagining his reaction; it’s impossible to gauge and could go an infinite number of ways. I’ve tried putting myself in his shoes, but I just can’t quite conceptualize it. Christopher confessed
to me that he, personally, would probably be livid in a similar situation, and warned me that my dad might not take it well. I’m as prepared as I can be.
Definitely, I type back to Christopher, and he responds with a thumbs-up and a heart. I laugh again--I had to teach him how to properly use emojis.
“Bailey,” my dad calls, “will you come help me with the corn casserole?”
I skip into the kitchen, eager to help make one of my favorite dishes. My dad is wearing an old, tattered apron that says “Kiss the Cook,” and I oblige by kissing him on the cheek. He grins at me, placing some sprigs of rosemary in the turkey.
“You’re in high spirits today, Bails,” he observes.
“You know me,” I say, rolling up my sleeves to prepare for greasing the casserole dish. “I love Thanksgiving food.”
“Who doesn’t?” my dad asks. We work in amiable silence for a bit, him dressing the turkey and me assembling my casserole. I sometimes miss my mom at times like this--we used to all help out with Thanksgiving together. But I know I’ll see her at Christmas, and I enjoy getting to spend one-on-one time with my dad, too. We’ve always had a special bond.
Will that bond be broken irreparably tonight?
“You’ve been in a better mood in general, lately,” my dad says as I put my casserole in the oven. “You seem much happier when I call you at school. What happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I demure, wiping my hands on my sweatpants. I’ll have to change into something much cuter for when Christopher comes over. “I think I’m just adjusting to classes and stuff.”
“You haven’t met a boy, have you?”
“Uh, no, definitely not,” I say, truthfully. “I promise I’ll let you know when I do.”
“You’d better,” my dad says darkly. “I need to make sure he’s good enough for you.”