More Than Water (28 page)

“Fools. Only fools.” I tap my nail against the hard surface. I came here for a reason, and the idle chitchat isn’t it. “So, where have you been lately?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb guy with me, Foster. It doesn’t suit you.”

I cross my arms over my chest, and he straightens, mirroring my stance.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” he adds.

“Really? Do I need to spell it out?”

“Apparently.”

I huff, “You haven’t returned my phone calls in almost a week. I’m lucky to get an answer to my texts. It’s like I don’t even exist to you anymore, like you’ve cut me off.”

Foster blinks. He holds my gaze.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask, probing. “’Cause if you are, you should just tell me rather than play this hide-and-seek game. I thought…” I shake my head, unable to continue. “I thought…” I groan.

Foster holds his position, stiff as a board. He removes the dark frames and sets them upside down on the counter between us. Then, he presses two fingers to the center of his forehead.

“Are you going all possessive girlfriend on me right now?” he finally says, not even looking at me. “Because I’m not interested in that kind of conversation.”

My heart stops.

Breathing ceases.

Did he say girlfriend?

“No,” I stress. “I’m asking you straight up if there’s a reason you’re ignoring me. And don’t say that you haven’t been. Something’s wrong.”

He doesn’t reply.

Releasing his fingers from his head, he lifts his deep blue eyes to reach my clear ones.

He remains speechless.

He appears stoic.

“This is about the other day, isn’t it?” I ask, trying to fill in the unvoiced words. “When we did the mold-casting at my place?”

He stares absently.

“Foster!” I shout. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Are you fucking him?” he asks, cold and serious.

“What? Who? Cal?”

“The guy at your place with the flowers. Mr. Rocker with the blue hair dye. He’s your type, I assume, and he was there to see you.”

“Yeah, he was, but it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Are you two sleeping together?”

“God, no!” I exclaim, taken aback. “And fuck no. That piece of shit was my ex. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

“Oh, so you used to fuck him?”

“Yes, I did, but I’m not now. I’m fucking you—or at least I was until about a week ago.” My chest cavity rises and falls.

Foster and I are somehow in the midst of an argument.

“Are you going all jealous boyfriend on me?”

He covers his eyes, growling. “Shit, Evelyn. No.”

No. He said no.

Why does it feel like the real answer is yes?

“Then, what is going on?” I ask, the timbre of my voice considerably lower than it was moments ago. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”

He places his palms on the counter. “I don’t know. I just thought you were…with that guy. I thought I was making it easier.”

“Easier? How would not talking to me make it easier?”

He grunts. “This”—Foster gestures between the two of us—“is getting complicated.”

“So, this
is
about the other day, isn’t it?”

“I was pissed, all right?” he concedes. “I didn’t like seeing that guy at your place. I shouldn’t be mad about it, but I am.” He ponders out the kitchen window. “That’s it. Are you happy now?”

“Yes, I am,” I enunciate. “Thank you for finally just saying it. Your verbal constipation was getting really annoying.”

There’s a pause in the air.

He chuckles.

Every muscle in my body relaxes.

“I hope you know,” I continue sincerely, “that I would never do that to you. I would never start seeing anyone without telling you first. I know what it feels like to be cheated on, too.”

His mouth tightens. “You don’t owe me anything like that. We aren’t a couple.”

His statement is nothing but the truth.

We aren’t a couple.

We’re two people who made an agreement.

That’s all.

“True,” I retort. “But…we are friends, and out of respect for that, I would never hurt you in that way. I would be up front and tell you if I was seeing someone, which I’m not.”

“I appreciate that.”

I quickly add, trying to level the playing field, “And if you ever feel like seeing someone, I hope you would tell me, too.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me.” Foster steps away from the kitchen island and opens the fridge. “I have no intentions of dating anyone.”

“Right.”

My heart sinks completely, bottoming out near my toes and spreading along the floor.

There it is.

Reality unveils itself completely, hitting me with the velocity of an angry gunshot. My heart stings, punctured emotionally by the unintentional biting words released from the man before me.

I’m wounded by facts.

It’s not his truth. It’s mine.

His words have hollowed me.

I hadn’t realized how hopeful I was for something more committal between Foster and me until it was taken away from me just now. In the very beginning, he’d stated he wasn’t interested in dating. I had known that from the day I met him. He’d said girls were complicated, and he was right.

My thoughts are everywhere at once.

I’m complicated.

Watching Foster retrieve a soda, anger comes over me. I desperately want to direct it at him for making me feel something more romantic for him, but I can’t. It’s not his fault. It’s mine. I let my foolish hormones convince my brain that our connection was beyond sex, despite knowing the rules all along. After all, we’d set them together.

My heart broke the rules.

I’m pissed at my betraying heart.

What I felt was one-sided.

What I feel is unrequited.

Typical.

“Do you want one?” Foster questions, offering me a cola.

“No, thanks.” I blink away the slight prick of tears from the major onslaught of emotions. “I’m good.”

“EJ, I’m sorry. I should have returned your calls this week.” He sets the can on the counter. “That wasn’t very friend-like of me.”

“No, it was a pretty dick move.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Bending at the waist, he rests his elbows on the ledge, staring at his unopened drink. “Maybe we should stop sleeping with each other before things get too…blurry. I’d hate to lose your friendship over a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah,” I barely whisper, letting the reality of his words sink in. “It’s probably for the best.”

We share a moment of remorse.

“It’s too bad though,” I state. “We were really good at it—the sex thing.”

“We did seem to know what we were doing,” he agrees solemnly.

“That’s an understatement.”

He lifts his palm from the counter, balling it into a fist. “It was fun though, right?”

“It was certainly a good run.” I fake a smile, curl my own hand, and bump it with his.

O
NE MIGHT THEORIZE AS TO HOW A MAN WHO’S YOUTH WAS SELF-DESCRIBED AS “GLOOMY AND COLD AND STERILE” CAME TO CREATE SUCH VIVID CREATIONS IN THE LATTER YEARS OF HIS LIFE.
M
ANY SCHOLARS AND HISTORIANS LOOK UPON
V
AN
G
OGH’S MENTAL ILLNESS AS THE CATALYST TO MOMENTS OF GENIUS IN HIS WORKS, BUT IT COULD BE ARGUED THAT ANY PERSON FACED WITH UNREQUITED LOVE COULD SUCCUMB TO MADNESS.

L
OVE IS A DRIVING FORCE FOR A PERSON’S DECISIONS, MOTIVES, AND PURPOSE IN LIFE, AS IS EVIDENCED BY MANY STORIES TOLD THROUGHOUT HISTORY.
I
T HAS CAUSED HAPPINESS, JOY, WAR, AND DECEIT.
W
ITHOUT LOVE, ONE CANNOT FUNCTION AND THRIVE AMONG THEIR PEERS OR HUMANITY AS A WHOLE.
I
TS ABSENCE CAN CAUSE IRREPARABLE HARM TO THOUGHT PROCESSES AND LOGIC—OR IN
V
AN
G
OGH’S CASE, MAKE ONE CRAZED.

T
HOSE WHO CANNOT SURVIVE IN THE WORLD DUE TO THE LACK OF THE INHERENT HUMAN NEED FOR LOVE SEARCH FOR ANOTHER PLACE TO RESIDE.
V
AN
G
OGH CREATED A SAFE SPACE TO ROAM WITHIN HIS IMAGINATIONS AND BROUGHT THOSE THOUGHTS TO LIFE THROUGH GRAPHITE AND PAINTS.
H
E DEVISED A PLACE WHERE HE COULD BE LOVED AND ACCEPTED FOR WHO HE TRULY WAS, CREATING HIS OWN KINGDOM OF FREEDOM.
T
HIS ACT MIGHT BE CONSIDERED MADNESS, BUT IF THIS WERE TRUE, THEN ALL DAYDREAMERS EXHIBIT SOME BRAND OF PSYCHOSIS.

I pause my fingers on the keyboard, reading over the last sentence written for my thesis.

I sigh.

It’s evident that my focus is overwhelmed by the recent events in my own life. While much of what I’ve written about Van Gogh’s lifetime is true, there are assumptions being made that have been heavily influenced by my own story, and it’s difficult to distinguish the line between his experiences and my own.

Maybe this isn’t the right time to be working on my paper.

I save the document, close my laptop, and then shimmy it into the bag at my feet while manning the front desk of the engineering library. There are still a few weeks left in the quarter, and most of my paper has already been completed. It’s probably a good idea to finish it when I’m in a better state of mind.

It’s been a few days since Foster and I discussed the status of what we are now—friends without benefits. The sudden shift in our relationship was difficult to accept at first, but I’ve come to terms with the reality of our situation, finally coming down from the dreamlike world I was unknowingly building in my mind.

What else can I do?

I value his friendship too much and agree that ending our arrangement is for the best. There’s no reason to muddy the waters between us even though my heart has already been taken to sea, looking for his. It’s time to reel my emotions back to the safety of where they once resided.

It’s currently the middle of my shift, and we’re experiencing a major lull in activity at the library—so much so, that Foster excused himself to get a coffee more than twenty minutes ago, which was out of character. In all the time that we’ve worked together, I’ve never known him to be the java-indulging type, so I was a little caught off guard when he announced that he was heading out to get a cup after spending the previous forty minutes silently texting on his phone.

Communication between us during the first hour of working together had been slightly strained, but no more than had been expected. With our new arrangement, it’s almost like we are starting over in some ways, and I find myself at a loss of how to act or what to say. I’ve been keeping quiet for the most part.

Since I’m unable to focus on my thesis, I lean back in my seat and peruse the Internet on my phone. I read an article about a koala stealing and driving a woman’s car off her property, flip through images of celebrities at a recent red carpet event, and then take a test to see how bitchy I am. Apparently, I’m only twenty-nine percent bitchy. That result would be a shock to all of humankind.

As I’m about to click on another test to see what celebrity is my soul mate, Foster pauses just outside the glass entrance to the library, talking on his phone. In the unstealthiest manner possible, I stare at him as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and then he paces in a five-foot circle. Eventually, he stops in his tracks and makes eye contact with me through the clear divide. Caught in the act of gawking, I quickly shift back to my phone, moving my fingers along the screen.

A few moments later, Foster enters the library. He pulls out his chair, takes a seat, and then places a small white paper cup in front of my monitor.

“What’s this?” I ask, referring to the unexpected treat.

“I brought you a hot cocoa with extra whipped cream.”

But nothing for himself?

“Thanks,” I say.

“If you don’t want it, no worries. I should have asked before I left. I wasn’t sure if you’d want coffee this late at night.”

“No, this is great,” I say, dropping the phone in my lap. I place my hands around the cup, flooding my skin with its heat. “I don’t think I’ve had hot chocolate since I was about twelve. Is there a cherry on top, too?”

“Did you want a cherry?”

“I think my cherry days are more than long gone.”

“I can easily attest to that.”

His quick comeback surprises me.

A rising boil of emotions floods my veins, despite the imaginary wall drawn between us. My muscles release, deflating the small amount of tension I didn’t realize they were grasping on to.

His smile widens, accentuating those adorable cheekbones.

I smile, too.
I can’t help it.

We smile together.

It’s not just his mouth showing joy, and it’s not just mine. It’s ours combined, feeding off of each other to create that unidentifiable yet indescribable connection. It’s a smile for both of us, made by both of us.