For You (10 page)

He watched me warily for the rest of the meal, and I tried to remember my manners. I really hadn't been brought up with much awareness about table manners and the basic hygiene stuff other people took for granted. My mother never once had us wash our hands before eating a meal or after using the washroom. In junior high, when the girls started using the washroom at school in packs, that was when my friends chided me for not washing up. To fit in, I started copying what they did, soaping my hands with the thin drizzly stuff that came from the dispenser, and using my elbows to push open the door so my fingers didn't touch the handle.

After Sawyer and I finished eating, he led me next door to the pool hall. Everyone in the place turned to stare. The place had nine pool tables, and though it wasn't full to capacity, nearly everyone in there was male. Their combined stares unsettled me.

“Don't worry,” Sawyer murmured, as though he could read my discomfort. “They're just curious because they don't see a lot of girls in here.”

I followed him to the counter, where he paid up front for an hour and was given the pool balls by a man who either know no English or chose not to speak.

As he racked up the balls for our first game, I could feel the eyes of the men on me. I zipped up my hoodie even though the pool hall was warm enough I could have taken it off. My skin got that itchy feeling I get when I've been away from home too long—like my own skin was exhausted from keeping up the cover of hiding me. Thinking about the dirty dishes in the sink and the laundry that needed folding didn't make my skin feel any less tense.

Someone touched me on the small of my back, and I jerked upright, clutching my arms to my chest.

“Sorry,” Sawyer murmured, coming to stand right in front of me. “What's wrong? I can take you home if you want. We don't have to play a game if you're not in the mood.”

“Of course we'll play.” I gazed up into his eyes, though seeing his worry was almost unbearable. Why did he care so much? He was far too good to be true, and way too good for a girl like me.

“You have to drop your shoulders away from your ears. You're too tense. Here, watch me.” He rolled his big shoulders back, elongating his neck and stretching his head from side to side, an expression of peace on his face.

I rolled my shoulders once, twice, three times.

Around us, the other men lost interest in the newcomers and returned to their games. They were lit by their individual hanging lamps, wrapped up in their own competition. Maybe they'd never been interested in me. Maybe it was just my constant companion: my paranoia.

My first break was easy. Already I'd made progress as a pool player, and Sawyer's face beamed with pride, which made my heart squeeze inside my chest. I wanted him to be proud of me.

He showed me a few more tips, and soon he was nodding with approval at how I was doing.

An hour went by like the blink of an eye, and I said I'd buy the next hour.

“Sure, I'll let you pay with this,” Sawyer said, handing me some bills from his pocket.

“I'm not a princess who expects the guy to pay for everything.”

“And I'm not the pauper I appear to be.” He grinned. “Princess, pauper, nice symmetry, eh?”

Shaking my head, I walked over to pay for the second hour, using Sawyer's money.

The man at the counter didn't say a word to me, either. He barely took his eyes off the TV sitting at the side of the counter.

When I got back to our pool table, Sawyer was using the Lady Helper to make a shot.

“No way,” I said. “You're using the Lady Helper? I wanted to use that five shots ago, but I thought you'd make fun of me.”

He tapped the cue ball gracefully, sending it arcing around one ball and gently into another, which ricocheted into the pocket as if programmed.

He said, “No shame in using the tools you have, or taking assistance.”

“How zen.”

“And this isn't a Lady Helper.” The stick had a metal waving bit at the end, and Sawyer held it up proudly, like a trident.

“What do you call it?”

He grinned. “I call it The Fucking Thing. As in, hand me The Fucking Thing already, so I don't bend over and give all you perverts a good view of my ass.”

I laughed into my hand.

“So that's what it takes to get you to laugh. A couple of swear words, and the mental image of my ass on display.”

“Gimme the stick. I paid for an hour and I want my money's worth.”

As I reached for the cue, he jerked his hand back. “Gimme?”

“Please and thank you.”

“That's better.” He turned around and pointed to the purple ball. “Now sink that in the corner pocket.”

“I'm still solids? Because I see at least three shots that are easier.”

“I know. But you won't get any better taking the easy shots. You may as well be at home baking cookies for your daughter.”

I inhaled sharply.
My daughter.
My lies sounded so much worse on someone else's lips.

Getting in position for the shot, I realized I had to bank the ball, so I moved around the table. As I shifted past Sawyer, the back of my legs brushed against his. We'd only touched when riding the motorcycle, and the brief contact made me keenly aware of his body. His energy. The mass of him, tall and masculine, inches away from me.

His voice low and husky, he said, “I know I promised not to do this, but I have to. Do I have your permission to get in here and help you.”

“Yes.”

Slowly, he positioned himself just behind me and reached his arms around me. I wasn't scared or upset, because it was Sawyer, and I trusted him. His hot hands looped over mine on the cue, and his heat radiated into my side. His breath hot on my ear, he murmured, “Easy.”

I swallowed and tried to focus on the shot, and not the feelings bubbling up inside me.

“Easy,” he repeated.

“Easy peasy,” I said.

“More like easy does it.” He moved the cue back and forth with authority. He was so good, it made me appreciate the frustration Bell had when I helped with her hand-lettering. Of course writing letters came easily to me; I'd had years of practice and muscle memory.

“Okay, I got it,” I said. “You can let go.”

He gripped my hand tighter. “No, I can't.”

I turned to look at him, our faces so close, our noses were nearly touching. I lost myself in those green eyes, unable to breathe. My pulse thrummed in my ears.

He said, “I can't let go, because I'm going to help you make the shot. Focus on the feeling, and I'll set it up again for you to make on your own.”

“Okay, do it.”

He chuckled. “You have to open your eyes.”

“Right.” My eyes flew open. What the hell was wrong with me?

“Easy.” He leaned in closer, his legs on either side of my bent leg, his body contacting my buttocks lightly, and he made the shot with my hands inside his. The ball banked and sunk obediently, and I saw why he'd chosen that shot. The leave was attractive, with a series of easy shots all lined up.

He pulled away and I straightened up quickly, my head light and woozy.

With the ball put back on the table, I tried the shot again on my own.

It took me seven tries to sink the ball, but when I did, it seemed like the weight on my shoulders got a little lighter.

“You did it!” Sawyer cheered, and he grabbed me in a hug.

I grunted as he squeezed me, my arms limp at my sides.

The next part happened both slowly and quickly. I looked up and he looked down. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he moved in to kiss me.

As Sawyer leaned in to kiss me, I turned my head to the side, and he connected with my cheek, his lips sliding across to my ear as I continued to turn.

“No,” I said, backing away.

He winced. “I'm sorry, Aubrey. I got carried away. I was caught in the moment, and it was the most beautiful moment, where you had faith in yourself, and I had you, and you weren't married.”

“We should go home.” I looked over at the door. I would have left on my own, if I'd had any clue where in the city we were. Everything still looked the same to me.

He gathered up the balls, even though we still had fifteen minutes left on our second hour.

We were both quiet as we walked outside and put on our helmets. It was still bright out, an hour from sunset, but the air had cooled off.

Gruffly, without making eye contact, Sawyer said, “Did you happen to remember what street you live on?”

I gave him the address and street number, and he nodded. Surrey had a very logical address system, because both the streets and avenues were numbered, and the house address told you the cross-street.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of my apartment building.

Sawyer said goodbye, but coolly. Like I'd disappointed him. He kept the bike running.

“I'm sorry,” I said as I stood on the sidewalk.

“Don't be.” He nodded and drove away, the sound of the engine drowning out my thoughts.

After a moment staring after him, I came to my senses and let myself into the building. I took the stairs up to the third floor, because the stairs were faster and smelled better than the elevator. The apartment itself was in great shape, but the common areas weren't always in the best state. It was cheap, though, and the owner had been desperate enough to take my uncle's letter in lieu of rental references.

As I put my key in the door of the apartment, I paused, hearing an unfamiliar woman's voice inside my place. Was I at the wrong apartment? All the floors looked similar. Blue carpet. Dingy white walls and a blue door. Number 3F. My apartment. I pressed my ear against the door.

The woman was saying, “Why were you in the trunk of a car? That sounds silly.”

A softer voice answered, but I couldn't hear Bell's words.

The woman continued, “How long were you in the trunk? Were you scared?”

My hand shaking, I backed away two steps. They'd found me. Social workers were in there with Bell, and soon they'd take her away.

I clutched my stomach and doubled over, nearly throwing up. My heart was beating so rapidly, I thought I might die right there of a heart attack. I dropped to my knees, my hands on the blue carpet.

Then I heard a peal of laughter. I shuffled back to the door and pressed my ear against it.

The woman said, “Yes, Taylor, you may have a glass of water. Here, let me help you find a cup in here. Looks like Bell's mother is a little behind on the kitchen work, but I'll wash one out for you.”

With a shaking hand, I unlocked the door.

A woman with a halo of blond curls and black-framed glasses stood in my kitchen, washing out a glass.

“You must be Aubrey,” she said. “Your grandmother had to do an important errand.” She gave me an eyebrow-raise to imply there was more information.

Bell was sitting at the table with another little girl, and they were both coloring in a book Bell hadn't previously shown any interest in.

The woman nodded for me to follow her, so I did—to my own bedroom. I kicked some dirty laundry to the side as I flicked on a light.

“Your grandmother had to take your grandfather to the hospital,” she said. “Now, don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing.”

“He has Parkinson's.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, that's what she told me. I guess he fell, but he's going to be okay.”

I pulled my phone from my purse and saw the missed calls.

Feeling guilty about drinking, and being off with Sawyer when my family needed me, I mumbled, “I must have turned the ringer off to save the battery and forgotten to turn it on again.”

She gave me a sympathetic smile. “It's okay, honey. None of us is perfect, and it looks like you're on your own.” She shook her head and lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry. That's not right of me to make any assumptions, but I didn't see any men's shoes at the door.”

“My husband's out of town a lot.”

“I understand.” She rubbed her hands together in a way that reminded me of one of my favorite teachers, a kind woman who took students snowshoeing on her own time every winter.

“Thanks for bringing Bell home and watching her,” I said. “Can I pay you for your time? Or… I could watch your daughter sometime, if you'd like.”

The woman smiled at me. “I'm Natalie. And my daughter is Taylor.”

I shook her hand. “Aubrey. And you know Bell, of course.”

“The girls have eaten, but I'd love a cup of tea.”

I wanted her to get the hell out of my apartment, but I also liked her, just a tiny bit. I did want to make some friends. Another woman was a much better idea than a guy, because misunderstandings like what had just happened with Sawyer were always bound to happen with guys. He'd tried to kiss me, I turned away, and that was the end of that.

“Tea,” I said, leading the way back out to the kitchen. “Let me wash a few cups. I don't usually leave all these dishes, but ...”

I stopped apologizing, because Natalie's face told me she didn't care about dirty dishes, and that she knew bullshit when she heard it.

We made cocoa for the girls, still happily coloring, and took our tea to the living room.

No sooner had we sat down than Natalie made a ragged inhaling sound I first mistook for the beginning of a sneeze. Dismayed, I watched as her eyes reddened and spilled out tears. I grabbed her some tissues and sat next to her, feeling helpless and uncomfortable.
What the fuck?

I blew across my tea and sat quietly until she was breathing calmly and apologizing, dabbing at her eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said again.

“Don't be sorry,” I said. “I won't tell anyone.”

“I have to apologize.” She grinned through the tears, which was one of the saddest expressions I'd ever seen. “It's a Canadian thing. You'll see. Live here a while longer and you'll find yourself apologizing to inanimate objects when you bump into them.”

“We'll see.” I blew over the hot tea and waited, my curiosity rising up. She was clearly upset, but was it my duty to ask her what was wrong? Or was it rude? I didn't like people making assumptions about me, and I didn't like them asking questions.

She said, “We need to sell the house, and I've been trying to frame this whole thing as an adventure, but the real estate agent came today, and now shit's real, you know?”