Come As You Are (9 page)

He didn’t answer because he was asleep.

I was tired, and it was tempting to sleep on the couch. I could have seen how he was in the morning. But no, I needed to get back home to get my books and class assignments.

I found his phone outside in the grass. Now that the sun was beginning to come up I could see the blood on the ground. I grabbed his cell phone. It was covered in blood too. I took it inside, tried to clean it off with a damp paper towel, then went back upstairs and left the phone on the end table next to his bed, along with the ER instructions. I remembered the little end table. Bought at Goodwill, painted a pale blue.

We tried.

We’d tried to erase everything that had happened before. Or at least I’d tried.

I crossed my arms and stared at him. He
was
pretty. Even now, when he should have looked like hell. Even with dark circles under his eyes and a jaw that hadn’t been shaved in several days. You would almost think he’d missed me. That thought gave me this small rush of excitement deep in my belly. What was wrong with me?

As I stared, I had to stop myself from kissing those sweetly curved lips.

Oh, what the hell.

I sat down next to him on the bed. Then I bent and pressed my lips very lightly against his. Just a brush. Soft lips to soft lips. Then I inhaled the scent of him. Mostly stale beer and antiseptic from the ER, but also the smell of his clothes and the smell of skin. Then I went downstairs.

I left, locking the door behind me, hoping nobody got any ideas about the broken window. It wasn’t a high-crime area, and the crimes that did happen tended to be at night.

I swung my leg over my bike and pedaled back through town. The drunks were gone and the roads were full of people in a hurry to get to work.

It was weird, but I realized I felt good, almost euphoric in the way music sometimes makes me feel. I knew Ian was at the root of this feeling, but I didn’t understand what it meant or where it came from. Once he woke up he might not remember much of the night, but it had felt like real life to me. Real. Life.

Ian wrapped the pillow around his throbbing head, moaned, and rolled to his side. The movement triggered a new pain. He opened his eyes a crack and to check out the source and saw that his hand was wrapped in gauze.

Molly.

He could smell her hair even though she wasn’t in the room, and he swore he could taste her lavender lip balm.

He grabbed his phone from the table next to the bed. Was that blood? And bloody fingerprints? He scrolled through the messages, or at least he started scrolling through them because damn, there were a lot. “What the?” He kept going. They were all sent last night, all to Molly. He read a few. Then he read more, finally reaching one about her being his buddy fuck.

“Oh, hell.” He let his head drop back on the pillow.

There was a good reason he didn’t drink very often. He was bad at it. He’d tried, but he’d never have to worry about becoming an alcoholic because he got shitfaced too easy.

He tried to fall back to sleep, but the pain wouldn’t let him. He didn’t know what hurt more, his head or his hand. He finally rolled to a sitting position, bare feet on the floor. Was she in the house?

He shouted her name, then grabbed his head, then let out another yelp as pain shot through his palm.

He needed Advil STAT.

He spotted a sheet of paper on the end table and picked it up. Homecare instructions from the ER. Signed by Molly. Ian and Molly Young.

Now he remembered. Molly had taken him to the ER.

“Molly?” He made his way downstairs, wincing with every step, hoping to find her on the couch. Nope. He looked outside, hoping to see her bike chained to the porch railing.

Nope.

Deciding she was gone, he shuffled to the kitchen, found a bottle of Advil, and took three capsules. That’s when he spotted the broken window. If he could kick himself he would.

The bell above the café door jingled, and Rose’s eyes got big.
It’s him
, she mouthed.

I turned to see Ian scoping out the place for a good seat. He wore a black hoodie, and in the hand that wasn’t wrapped in gauze he clutched a bouquet of pale yellow flowers. He took a seat next to a window overlooking the sidewalk, patio tables, and Lyndale Avenue.

I thought about asking Rose to take his table, but that would be cowardly of me. So I walked across the room as if I owned it, clicked my pen against my tablet, and asked him what he’d like.

“I’d like to give you these.” He held out the bouquet. I stared for a moment before taking them. I didn’t know what kind of flowers they were, but they reminded me of the walls in the living room.

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“Just coffee.”

“We’ve got some really good pumpkin bread.”

“No thanks. And I don’t think you’re being mean enough.”

“How’s the hand?”

“Hurts like hell, but not as much as my head.”

I laughed. “You didn’t get it wet did you? Not your head, your hand?”

“No.” He looked up at me with that earnest and too intense expression he sometimes got. “Thanks. For last night.”

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t remember. You were pretty out of it.”

“I remember.”

“The whole night?” I thought about how I’d kissed him.

“Everything after the hospital is a bit fuzzy.”

“I’ll put these in water and get your coffee.”

When I came back he was staring out the window, his hands under the table. He looked sad.

“I’m taking a break soon,” I told him. “Want to sit outside?”

“Yeah” He pulled the white coffee mug closer. “I’ll go on out. Meet me when you’re ready.”

I stopped Rose in the kitchen. “I’m going to grab ten minutes,” I told her as I untied my apron and reached for my denim jacket.

“That asshole brought you flowers?”

“Sweet of him, right?”

“Devious.”

I made myself a chai latte, then joined Ian on the sidewalk.

It was another beautiful day. A little windy and clouds were moving fast, covering us in shadow. Just when it seemed too cold to be outside, the clouds passed and the sun felt good through my clothes.

We sat there without talking until Ian finally said, “I can’t even remember what we fought about.”

“You accused me of being remote. Shut off.”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded as he watched a group of kids fly past on skateboards.

“It’s true,” I admitted. “I am.”

“It was a bad idea to move into together.”

I watched him as he took a sip of coffee, and I remembered morning kisses that tasted like that.

“Two strangers.”

“We did okay for a while, but…I’m not girlfriend material. That’s what you need to understand. I’m not anybody who’s going to stick with anybody.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I can’t share myself.” I shrugged. “I guess I’m just selfish.”

“I think there’s more to it than that.”

I’d never asked him about himself, but now I became suspicious. “What was your major?”

“Psychology.”

“Oh, my God.” And yeah, it made total sense. I should have known.

He must have read my dismay or disgust, because he added: “I minored in film if that helps.”

I shook my head. “You’ve been trying to psychoanalyze me from that first night.”

“You
are
a mess. Who wouldn’t be trying to figure you out? That doesn’t have anything to do with my degree.”

“I don’t want anybody trying to figure me out. That’s why I can’t have a relationship.”

“The thing with us—it all happened way too fast.”

“That’s me. I jump in and jump out.”

“Were we just playing house? Was I just your fuck buddy?” he asked. “Because I think it was more than that.”

“No, it wasn’t. You saw it as something it wasn’t. It’s weird, but I think guys take breakups harder than girls.” I put my elbows on the table. There we were on the sidewalk, warm sun beating down, the cool breeze of fall blowing his curls, sending the scent of him my way. “You can’t really like me because you don’t know me. You’ll never know me.”

I’d said the same words to other guys and they’d gotten pissed. He surprised me by leaning back in his chair. “Are you saying that knowing a person is all about her history? All about the core of who she is? Even if that core is never shared?”

“Pretty much.”

“So you don’t know me either. If what you say is true, then you don’t know me at all.”

My mind hesitated. He was pulling shrink shit on me, but I couldn’t help but get sucked into what he was saying. “I know you.”

“How do you know me? When you don’t know anything about me.”

My heart was beating fast, and I was feeling out-of-breath.

“Right?” he asked.

I stared at him, and it felt like I was falling into his eyes.

“People are more than the sum of their parts,” he said. “They are layers and layers and layers. Something happened to you somewhere along the line and if you don’t want to share it with me that’s okay. That’s fine. But you have to understand that the past might impact who you are now, and it might hinder your ability to build lasting relationships, but it doesn’t have to define you. The past touches you, and it will always be there, but you are more than your past experiences.”

I imagined jumping into his chair and knocking him to the ground, not in anger but appreciation. I wanted to wrap my arms and legs around him and get as close to him as I could.

I
did
know him, I realized. Even if I knew nothing about his past. He was kind and sweet, with morals that were almost old-fashioned. He was a gentleman. “Are you like twenty-five going on a hundred?” I asked instead of launching the attack I’d so perfectly played out in my head.

He laughed, and my God, his laugh. Kind of this dude giggle that made him suddenly seem really young. “I get that a lot. I think it might be from taking care of my mother for so many years.”

More about him. Did I want to know? He was just sharing the hell out of himself. Another shrink trick, I suppose.

“It was just the two of us,” he said. “She was sick with cancer for three years.”

“How old were you?”

“Freshman in college when she died. So I kind of know what you’re going through.”

He didn’t, but I brushed that away. “I should probably get back to work,” I said when I noticed a third group of people stepping into the café. I was getting to my feet when he pinned me with his eyes again. The color in there was always changing. Now, in the brilliant sun, they looked really, really green, with gold lines running through them.

“Let’s go somewhere together,” he said. “I’ll come and pick you up. Go out to eat. A movie.”

“You mean like a date?” I couldn’t keep the horror from my voice. I didn’t
date.
It was way too traditional.
No, you hook up with guys at parties and go home with them. No, you hook up with guys at bars and go to hotels with them.

“Is that too boring for you?”

“I think we’re beyond that. I mean, we can’t undo the past few weeks.”

Whenever I dumped a guy, he never talked to me again. Never texted, never tried to call. Nothing. And if I ran into him at a party or a bar, he’d give me an I-hate-you look. I didn’t get what was happening now with Ian. I didn’t know how to react.

“I’m not trying to undo it,” Ian said. “I just want to bring in another layer. I want to bring in something normal.”

My chair scraped against the cement as I stood. I picked up my latte and took a swallow now that it was cooler. “I don’t do normal.”

He flinched, and I instantly felt bad.

To soften my rejection, I said: “Don’t forget to change your bandage. And keep an eye out for infection. If your hand feels hot. If you have a fever.” Through the window, I saw Rose waving frantically and mouthing the word
help.

“So no movie? There’s an interesting looking documentary playing at some place called The Bell Museum. Know where that is?”

I kept forgetting he didn’t know his way around. “Yeah, it’s on campus.”

“It’s about some guy who lived underground for a year.”

“You like documentaries?” I did too, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“When I minored in film studies my focus was documentaries.”

Damn. He had to quit sharing himself. But it seemed like this was his new thing. While we’d lived together he’d shared nothing, but now he was trying to make up for lost time.

“Thanks for the flowers.” Then I went inside.

“What’d the asshole want?” Rose asked as I hung my jacket back on the peg and reached for my apron.

“He wanted to take me out to dinner and a movie.”

Rose stared at me. “You? Dinner?” She burst out laughing.

“Not me?” I asked, looking for confirmation but now feeling
what the hell
? Was I
that
weird? Weird was only good when you were in charge of the weird.

“So not you.”

Hand up my shirt kneading my boob. Hard dick pressed against my thigh. Mouth mashed against mine. Another hand inside my panties, a finger stroking me
.

I moaned and grabbed a pair of bare shoulders.

Tongue probed my mouth. The taste of cigarettes and beer, the smell of old sweat, the feel of long facial hair.

I came awake with a jolt and realized the guy fondling me was a stranger. Too dark to see, but he definitely wasn’t Ian. And I hadn’t been drinking. I hadn’t hooked up with anybody. I was home—or rather at my new home—in my own bed.

Break-in?

“Stop.” I shoved at the shoulders. That enticed him more because he shifted his weight, pinning me down. He tugged my panties to mid-thigh, and I could feel his dick trying to work it’s way between my legs while he sucked on my mouth, then buried his face in my neck.

“Stop!” I pushed harder and he pushed harder. I tried to bring up my knees but he was too heavy. I think I screamed. I’m pretty sure I screamed. Using both hands, I pounded on his head, slapping and slugging.

“Whoa, whoa!” He sprang away and I heard him hit the floor. “That ain’t cool. That ain’t cool at all.”

Heart thundering, body quaking, I felt around for the lamp and turned it on. There on the floor was a naked guy with long, straggly hair. A kid, really.

“I’m calling the cops.” I reached for my phone. Dropped it. Shaking so much it didn’t seem real—like a bad actor pretending to be afraid.
Fear. Give us fear.
I grabbed the sheet. Covered myself. Managed to snag the phone again.

“Hey, chill.” He put up his hand, palm out. “I’m the one who should call the cops and have them kick you the fuck out.”

It dawned on me that he lived here
. Lived here
. Which meant I wasn’t safe in my own bed. I let out a sob, swallowing it halfway. Couldn’t let him know how upset I was.

“I can tell you right now most chicks don’t mind waking up to find me in their bed. Your door was open. In this house that’s an invitation. So…you’re the one who screwed up.”

“Get out of my room. Now.” Brave front. “And buy some deodorant.”

“I pay the rent here.” He jumped to his feet. “The lease is in my name.” He strutted a bit, raked both hands through his hair, then pointed at me. “I want you out. I don’t know what Shavon was thinking letting you move in. You crazy bitch.”

He stormed from the room, as much as a naked guy could storm.

“Shavon! Hey, Shavon! What the hell did you bring into our house? Who does that chick think she is?”

I heard a murmur of voices, then the creak of a bed. Then more bed creaking as I realized he and Shavon were doing it on the other side of my wall.

“You’re really missing out!” Shavon shouted.

I was still trembling. I couldn’t seem to stop.

Sometimes I think we get caught in these clusters of bad. Like once the pattern of bad starts it builds and grows and no matter how hard we try to break the pattern something else is at play, something beyond our control. And the bad can last weeks or months or years. That’s the problem with bad.

The bed next door was hitting the wall, and I swear I could feel my room shaking.

They were doing it to antagonize me because now the vocalizations were louder and Shavon was screaming at him to fuck her harder. Finally the pounding and screaming stopped, and then the laughter began. Both of them. Laughing hysterically and loudly.

“Want to join us?” Shavon shouted between the fits of laughter.

“What’s her name?” I heard the guy ask.

“Molly.”

“Molly!” he shouted through the thin walls. “Come fuck with us!”

Sometimes I really hated people. A lot of times I really hated people. And I wished I’d never tossed any tips into Shavon’s damn violin case.

Now they were talking to each other. “How did that chick end up here?” he asked.

“She seemed cool,” Shavon said. “And she has a nice body. I knew you’d like that.”

“I
would
have liked that.”

Shavon laughed.

“She has to go.”

No problem. I was already on my way.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, lacing my boots, tugging on T-shirt and hoodie, stocking cap. Stuffing my laptop into my backpack. I put a heavier jacket—a vintage military parka I’d picked up at Everyday People—over my hoodie in case I didn’t make it back to get the rest of my stuff for a few days. My decision to leave helped calm me.

Outside I hefted my backpack over my shoulders, unchained my bike, and began to pedal away. Flat tire.

Exactly what I meant about the bad things vortex. It was sucking me in.

I rechained the bike to the porch railing, then took off down the sidewalk. I checked the time on phone. After two o’clock. The naked dude must have come home after the bars closed.

With hands on the straps of my pack, I set a brisk pace. Whenever I passed a streetlight I could see my breath. I didn’t realize where I was going until I spotted a cross street that led to Rose’s new place. I turned and headed that way.

A string of blue lights on the enclosed and locked porch, but the rest of the house was dark. No van in the driveway, but Isaac could have been on tour. I went around back and knocked on the kitchen door. Since it was two o’clock on a Saturday night—or early Sunday—they were probably at a party. I could wait, but it was cold and I’d partied with Rose enough to know that sometimes she didn’t give up until dawn.

Rose’s was about a mile from our old place and I happened to think of my car. Was it still there? Had it been towed?

I slipped off my backpack and dug around until I found my car keys. I tucked them into the front pocket of my jeans and took off in the direction of the old homestead.

Fifteen minutes later I rounded a corner to see my faded black Corolla. It looked like home. Even though I was exhausted, and even though my shoulders ached from the heavy backpack, I ran. I actually ran toward the damn car.

The street was well lit, and I could see pieces of paper stuck to the windshield and tucked under the wipers. Tow warnings, issued by the street department. I removed them all, bundling them in my hand. Then I tried to unlock the car with the fob. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Now what? The key. I could actually use the key to unlock the door. I almost slapped myself in the forehead. My God. How stupid. I unlocked the car, dropped my backpack on the floor in the backseat, crawled in after it, and relocked the door. Then I removed my heavy coat and covered up with it, found an old sweatshirt on the floor to use for a pillow, and went to sleep. Home sweet home.