Falling Under (9 page)
He is there by now, waiting at the usual table by the front window. Perhaps he’s ordered his Bloody Mary and my soda and is sitting watching the bubbles rise past the ice cubes to the top and then burst into the air. The bubbles will come slower and slower the longer he waits, until finally the carbonation is gone, the drink flat, the evening over.
He is there, he is there. Without me. Wait a sec... He’s
there
.
I sit up fast, exposing my upper body to the chilly bedroom air. I don’t have his last name or phone number, but HELLO!? Sappho is a business. Businesses have telephones.
I reach my hand out to the bedside table and grab the receiver.
Don’t think too much, Mara, don’t think about it, just...
I dial 411.
I don’t even have to leave my precious bed.
Crazy adrenaline rocks through me as I dial Sappho, count the rings till they pick up, and beg the bartender to find the only man in the bar and ask him to come to the phone.
“It’s a matter of life and death,” I tell her.
She puts the phone down and I wait. And then, some shouts among the roar of the bar, a clunking sound in my ear, and there he is.
“MARA?” he shouts. “Yes! Hi!” I say.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I’M NEXT TO THE SPEAKER.”
“YES! YES, HUGO, IT’S ME.”
“OH GOOD! I THOUGHT MAYBE... WHAT’S UP? WHERE AREYOU?”
“HOME. I, UM, I’M NOT FEELING WELL.” “HANG ON, THIS IS BRUTAL. IF I GIVEYOU MY
CELL NUMBER WILL YOU CALL ME BACK IN TWO MINUTES SO I CAN GO OUTSIDE?”
“YES.”
“YOU HAVE A PEN?” “YES.”
He hollers the number out and I write it on the back of my electric bill envelope.
“OKAY,” I say, “I’LL CALLYOU BACK. BYE.”
“WAIT!” he says. “WHAT?”
“YOU PROMISEYOU’RE GOING TO CALL?” “YES.”
“CUZ OTHERWISE I’M GOING TO HANG MYSELF.”
I laugh, but he has reason to think I might chicken out. “YOU GIVE MEYOUR NUMBER TOO!” he says. “OKAY.”
I could give him the Pizza Pizza number, but I don’t. We hang up and I start counting. The phone rings before
I reach sixty.
“Have some faith!” I say when I pick up.
“Is this the elusive woman I’m supposedly not dating?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Is she ‘not there’?” “Very funny.” “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So what’s up?” he says.
“I’m sort of sick,” I say. “I’ve been in bed since yes- terday.”
“You contagious?” “Um.. .”
Do I tell him? Maybe I should try to explain.
Sure.
Oh, Hugo, by the way, sometimes I can’t walk down the street without losing my mind and occasionally I’m so overwhelmed I can’t get out of bed in the morning and speaking of beds, after I saw you the other night, even though I really like you, I went and had sex with my jerk of a lover who’s sud- denly acting like he gives a shit about me, which is another problem
... Yeah, that’ll work.
“No,” I say, “not contagious.” “Is it a migraine or something?”
“Kind of. More like a stress headache.” That’s close to honest, right?
“That sucks,” he says. “Yeah.”
“Sounds like you need some TLC.” “You think?”
“I think. How about I come over?” he suggests. “Over?” I say, like a total dolt. “Here?”
At this he bursts into a full-bellied laugh. “Well, yeah, there.”
“Oh. Um.”
“What’s your address?”
“No, no. I haven’t... You can’t.. .” “I’ll bring diet soda,” he says. “That’s.. .”
“And hot food.”
My stomach, back from the dead, it seems, gives a long, low rumble. I give in and tell him my address.
Holy shit.
Who needs caffeine? Who needs therapy? Just invite a man over to your house when you have fur on your teeth and you’re sitting in the dark in ugly, unwashed pajamas.
I’m up!
I shower, towel my hair, throw on clothes, and nearly brush my teeth with face cream.
My house smells stale, like a sick person. Windows open, candles lit...
But now it looks like I’m staging a seduction. Which I’m certainly not ready to do, given the state of my inner land- scape. Plus Hugo and I haven’t even kissed or gone on an of- ficial date and I intend to do something about Erik before things get any messier. Like stop fucking him, for example.
Candles out, fan the air, holy shit! Ding dong.
I’m not ready for this.
Maybe I could make a break for the back door. What was I thinking? What happened to being cautious? Taking it slowly?
Oh, no, not me! Days of resistance and then in one weak moment I’m having him to my house. I may as well whip my
clothes off and answer the door naked and tell him I want to bear his children.
Who said anything about children? Ahh! Ahh! Aaahhhhh!
Ding dong.
Move your loser feet toward that door, you pathetic wretch. There’s a nice man out there. He has food.
Right, left, right, left. Fingers to bolts. Hand to door- knob. Turn, pull.
“I’m not ready to have children,” I blurt out before he has a chance to open his mouth.
“How about gnocchi?” he says. “What?”
“Are you ready to have gnocchi? Arrabbiata sauce.” “Oh.” I step out of the doorframe and let him into the
foyer.
“Not sure what else you had in mind,” he says and gives me a wicked grin.
I take the bags of food from him and walk to the kitchen. “Just ignore me,” I say. “I’m a freak.”
“How’re you feeling?” “Better.”
“Good,” he says, and follows me. “Do I get a tour?” I think about the state of my bedroom.
“Not today,” I say. “Help me unpack the food and we’ll eat in the front room.”
He stands next to me at the countertop and we divvy up the feast. My stomach growls and we both laugh.
Eating is awkward at first. I forgot to turn music on, so the only sounds are those of chewing and swallowing. But the
food smells amazing and I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I tell myself to get over it.
I stuff myself and warmth spreads over my entire body. Ahh.
Once we’ve finished eating, we put our plates aside and lean on opposite arms of the couch with our feet up, facing in. “So,” I say, “you heard about my family, what about
yours?”
“I have a pretty good family,” he says, and shifts deeper into the couch. “I’ve got a brother and a sister—I think I’ve mentioned that.”
“Yeah. You said your brother’s very... competitive.” “Exactly. Not a bad guy, though. Just needs to make
everything about status. I have no patience for that shit. My sister’s cool though. We’ve always been close.”
“And your mom and dad? They’re together?” He nods.
“Are they happy?”
“I think so. They fight sometimes but they also make each other laugh. My mom likes to take the piss out of my dad and he never seems to mind. And they have a lot of friends over, you know, dinner parties and stuff.”
“Wow. Your life sounds so normal.” He winces.
“No, that’s good. That’s nice,” I assure him. “And you know, it sounds very... populated. Compared to being an only child, I guess.”
“I’ve heard only children often have intense relationships with their parents,” he says. “Good or bad.”
“Huh,” I say.
“Seems like it might be true for you.”
“You could say that. Add a divorce, personality con- flicts... addictions. Yeah, it gets intense. The alimony and the acrimony!”
He laughs.
“But that’s boring,” I say. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?” “Umm.. .”
Our feet are touching.
“Isn’t this where you ask me to sleep with you?” Hugo says.
I try to laugh but it doesn’t quite come out that way—it sounds more like I’m choking.
“No,” I say.
“Why not?” “Because.”
“Back to your old communicative self,” he says. “Because why?”
“Because now you’re in my house.”
“Doesn’t seem like a deterrent to me,” he says. “And because now I like you.”
“You liked me before.” “Maybe.”
“So now you like me more?” “Possibly.”
“And this means you stop asking me to have sex with you?” His brow creases. “Want me to search for my inner bastard?”
I laugh. “No.”
“What then?”
“You know what I really want?” I say. “I can’t wait to hear,” he says.
“Your hair.” “Hunh?”
“Your hair, I want it. I like it.”
He laughs and reaches up to tug on a curl.
“Should I be worried?” he asks. “Have you lured me here so you can lull me into a lustful stupor and then scalp me in my sleep?”
“Yep, it’s a bit of a fetish.”
“I knew there was something strange about you.” “First your hair, then your identity!”
“Woe is me!” he says. “Hey, that rhymed—me, identity— did you notice?”
“Amazing talents you have, Hugo.”
“What is it you want to do with my hair, Mara?”
I feel the skin on the back of my neck getting hot again. I look down and shrug.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’d just like to... grab hand- fuls of it, weave it through my fingers.”
“You can,” he says, and leans forward, offering his head.
I push myself forward, reach out with one hand and touch.
His hair is soft, the individual curls tight and silky. Our faces are close and he looks right into my eyes. “You can use both hands,” he says.
“Really.”
“Uh, hunh.”
I resist the urge to lick my lips, and lift my other hand.
I hold both sides of his head, spread my fingers and thumbs out and explore.
Hugo sighs and shuts his eyes.
His hair is blondish-brown, but to my artist brain it feels... blue. Blue like a sky with fluffy white clouds in it.
“Mmm,” he says.
“Your scalp is purple and your hair is a lovely blue,” I whisper.
“Mmm,” he says. “Anything you say.”
I massage around the back of his head and to his neck, but our position—cross-legged, facing each other—is getting uncomfortable. I uncross my legs and place them over his, on either side, so I can move closer.
His eyes open, and we are inches apart. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Is
this
where you ask me to sleep with you?” “No.”
“Damn,” he says.
“It might be where I ask you to kiss me though.” “Ah,” he says, and pulls me up onto his lap. “It’s possible I could do that,” he says.
My hands are still lost in his hair.
I wrap my legs around him and squeeze. His lips are hot.
Hot and thick and moving against mine.
He kisses me until I am dizzy, until I am past dizzy.
His mouth moves to my throat, his tongue traces my collarbone. I moan and drag him back up to my lips.
I am beyond dizzy, I am falling.
Oh, boy, I should not be kissing this man. I should not be sharing breath with him or feeling his heartbeat. I should not be pulling him closer and letting myself feel that crazy stupid thing people call love.
I should not be falling in love, because love will pull me under.
I
am with Lucas. His hair is pale and his eyes blank, the way they always are when he works.
I pose on the bed of our Belmont Street apartment. I am naked, arms crossed, legs crossed, eyes open.
Under his hands, a lump of clay begins to resemble me. It is me, but not me. A separate me, distinct for her elegance, her mystery, her beauty.
His thumb circles to create the contour of an ankle, then a knee, thighs...
I shudder with want, and then with envy for the beauti- ful, half-formed other.
He slices away to reveal a jagged hip bone, then the small of her back, the hint of vertebrae. I breathe faster. He looks, sees it, but his hands stay on her. Perhaps she is better. Yes. She is what he needs, what he thought I was.
But maybe here, maybe this time I can want him enough to make him stay.
Yes.
She begins to breathe and then to press against the callused warmth of his hands.
My skin is burning. I whisper his name. “Please.” “Promise?” he says.
I swallow. “Please?”
He abandons her, steps toward me, reaches out.
I lock my eyes to his. I must, I must, or he will disappear.
He places a fingertip on my elbow, and behind him I see her. The limbs soften, her face dissolves, crumbles.
He needs me, he has come.
But the clay behind him is shapeless, is cold, and so am I. Even in dreams, I fail.
A
aron Deeter is having the party of the year.
No parents, an indoor pool and sauna, and a DJ! It will go all night and the entire school, minus losers, will be there.
“I’ll die if we can’t go,” Bernadette says. “Martin can get us some weed, but we need to tell our mothers that we’re staying at each other’s house.”
“Isn’t that kind of an old trick?”
“We’ll have to risk it. Too bad it’s not your dad’s weekend.”
“Because he has zero moral authority and doesn’t care what happens to me?”
“Not true, Mar, not true,” she says. “Well, maybe the moral authority part. Hey, even Faith English is going, and she has the strictest parents in the world.”
“How?”
“She said she’s going to a study-focus slumber party.” “What, did she spawn from morons?”
Bernadette sniffs. “That’s not the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”
“What crawled up your ass?” “Never mind. Nothing.”
6
It’s easy to get stoned in a hot tub, and the weed from Martin is excellent stuff. In the sauna it feels even better, though it makes you thirsty. Someone brings beer and chips in there, and you and Bernadette munch and drink and laugh until you can barely breathe.
You can feel all the molecules in every part of the air. So cool.
But hot. Too hot to be cool.
“Which is why I’m going to the pool! Ha HA! I rhyme!” you say to Bernadette.
“It’s about TIME!” she says, and beams at you. “You’re a genius. You wanna come?”
Some people push the door open and come in. Oh, that cool air is
so
nice.
Bernadette looks at the newcomers and gives you the peace sign. “I’m cooool,” she says, and laughs. “I’ll come in a, what’s it called, a minute. In a minute.”