If I Stay (15 page)

I didn't need an answer.

“I counted the bills,” he said. “It's not an obscene amount. It's just enough to pay rent for the duration of our lease, and the rest of the bills. Maybe some groceries. Jesus, Gems.”

Sliding the bank envelope back in the mailing envelope, I sat down carefully on the couch, as if somehow the cushions would have opened up and I would have gone spiraling into oblivion. Which does suffice to accurately describe how I felt in that very moment, at that exact second of my unquestionably insane life.

“I got a call from Tricia,” he continued. Tricia was our landlord. “An 'unnamed but otherwise lovely gentleman' had left the envelope the office, asking if she'd give it to either of us...and here we are.”

I nodded. Brandon kept shaking his head, and neither of us could really speak.

“Professor McMansion,” he said quietly.

I closed my eyes, trying to swallow. Trying to process exactly what was happening.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Professor McMansion.”

FOURTEEN

I contemplated walking over to McMansion and telling Ben that I couldn't accept his gift. I also contemplated calling him when my nerves got the best of me, and I couldn't bring myself to actually move from the couch that I was nearly plastered to. It wasn't because I wanted to keep the money that I didn't move, but rather the fact that this man, my
professor –
a guy that I'd known for at tops, a month – was helping me in such an extreme way that my brain felt like it was short-circuiting. A computer ready to explode in a fit of sparks.

“Don't tell me how much is in the envelope,” I told Brandon, who was still seated and about as frozen as the cardboard Biebs that was still parked in the dining room. “I don't want to know.”

“What do we do?” he asked. “Keep it?”

“No,” I said, my fingers still clenched around the paper shield that contained, to my present knowledge, an unknown sum of money. “I'm going to give it back. There's no way we can accept this from him – It's weird. I think. Is this weird?”

“I don't know,” Brandon said. “I mean, it's been what – a month?”

“Five weeks and roughly three days,” I answered quickly, pressing my lips together. “Still. It's not like we're officially anything. No formal titles. It's just...I'm not sure.”

“He looks at you differently,” Brandon smiled. “He really does. I see it.”

Brief meetings in the classroom after everyone was dismissed. Secret kisses when nobody was watching. Hand holding beneath tables, and dancing in changing rooms at my place of employment that really wasn't actually employing me anymore.

I sighed, closing my eyes and feeling as my temples started to softly throb.

“This all just feels like a recipe for disaster.”

“Or, you know, something potentially fantastic.”

He pulled me over, and I rested my head on Brandon's shoulder for a few moments. The fabric of his polo was soft, pale green and cotton. What I loved the most about Brandon was that I somehow managed to fit into the crook of his arm perfectly, and there's no real way to describe how sweet it feels to be held in the arms of your male best-friend without being concerned about feelings or what ifs or as Brandon would happily exclaim – boners. I appreciated my simple and hilarious, albeit sometimes frustrating friendship with Brandon. Even when he was practically intolerable, screaming about Justin Bieber and spending the nights up late playing Super Nintendo and yelling at the television screen, there was something so sincere and kind and lovely about him that kept our connection alive since high school. Biology class, to be specific. He did all of the dissection labs for me, while I spent the class periods in the bathroom vomiting. One time he'd even made a puppet out of a thoroughly sliced-up specimen that he'd lovingly named Michigan J. Frog, after the cartoon character.

“
Hello, my baby!  Hello, my honey! Hello, my ragtime galllll!
”

He kept singing until our teacher finally barked at him to stop, during which Brandon was startled and Michigan J. Frog went splattering onto the floor. Brandon was then sent to the front office, and I was left to clean up the mess.

That was where it all began.

“You really like him, huh?” Brandon smelled of smoke and citrus and body spray. Not like a boy, but not really a man, either. Like something in-between. “I really don't think you should feel so ashamed.”

“Brandon, he's our professor.”

“And you met him at a bar! Or excuse me, a poetry reading if you'd like to call technicalities.
You met him before this whole fiasco. What do you think would have happened had you never walked into that classroom, Gems?”

We looked at each other, and I stood. The weight of my jacket felt heavier, sinking me into the hardwood floor that wasn't real wood. It was fake, inexpensive. Just like everything else in our tiny, humble abode.

“I'm really not sure,” I answered quietly. “Maybe we would have met up that night for our date, and had a chance at something normal.”

Or maybe nothing would have happened at all. Maybe I would have gotten called into work, or he would have had some sort of emergency. Maybe the quick-shifting tides of time would have swept us apart as rapidly as we had come together.

Maybe, in some way, the unexpected surprise of having Ben as my professor was a lucky thing.

I almost spilled what had happened in the coat closet between Sacha and I. The kiss that I knew he was probably still thinking about. But I chose, even if it was a little difficult sitting so easily with Brandon, not to tell him. Not yet, at least.

It's not like Sacha knew about Ben and I. Maybe Brandon didn't need to know about absolutely everything – and besides, as he cut me a small, sly glance – I think he was already aware.

“Life is strange and unpredictable,” he said. “Like you meeting Professor Angel Face, who is also an author, who also lives in a fancy haunted mansion.”

“It's not actually haunted,” I chirped. “It's more like a normal, fancy, not-haunted mansion. Although I did hear something about a black cat.”

“Either way,” Brandon grinned. “Toby's gone, right? Your life is an open canvas. Like your drawings, Gems. Now, I'm not nearly as perfect with wording stuff as that pretentious camera-toting bastard Sacha is...but maybe that's how you should see this whole thing. Like an open canvas.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You can make it anything you want it to be. There are no rules to this game.”

Brandon gave a big, lazy stretch and jumped to his feet. Giving me a quick hug, he added: “I'll be out for the night, so if you leave, be sure to lock up so that our oh-so-costly belongings don't get swiped.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Well, you aren't the only one who's sort-of maybe dating,” he smirked. “I have a date.”

His eyes got all wide and excited. It was really a delightful thing to watch. You see, there were two things I knew about Brandon from the years we'd spent together. For starters, he was a guy that liked to enjoy himself. That said, when he was into someone – he fell
hard
. And it was almost always written all over his face. Brandon, at heart, was a romantic. He loved love like he loved Nicolas Cage and stupid Internet videos. Which, by all means, was quite a stretch.

“Uh oh,” I laughed. “This is serious. You must really be into this guy if you're already lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“We'll see,” he said, hope tinging the two words. I slid the envelope into my coat pocket and gave him a small wave.

“I'm bringing this over to Professor Lawson's,” I said, grinning to myself at just how delicious it felt calling Ben by such a professional title. “I'll maybe see you later.”

I skipped down the steps, deciding to ditch the car and walk by foot to Ben's place. Even though it was still cold, and February had brought no sign of Spring to come. I longed for the ice to finally melt entirely, and for the gleaming sheets to be replaced by grass and eventually, flowers.

When I reached the gate, I hit the button on the call-box and didn't bother waiting for his response.

“It's me,” I said, trying my best to speak up, particularly since the call-box was rather high, and I was rather not. “Let me in.”

I waited. One, two, three minutes passed. And then, like something out of the movie, the gates slowly opened. I smiled faintly, pulling my hat down below my ears and running up the long, winding driveway. Careful, of course, not to slip on any ice.

I'm really not sure what exactly I was expecting as I stood outside, waiting for Ben to open those two doors that I'd for ages gazed up at from a distance. The two entrance, pillars and all, that lead into the depths of a place that from my lowly spot on the outskirts had resembled something more like a doll house than an actual home. From the outside, the mansion on the hill had always been placed on this pedestal so fueled by mystery that there was always that sense of wonder as to what was actually inside the grand structure.

As I waited, I traced my fingers along the door and regarded briefly the pot of dying flowers that sat by my feet. Maybe Ben didn't have a green thumb. Maybe they'd always been there.

When he opened the door, I could hear the sound of music playing – something low, smoky, folk-sounding. At first, he looked surprised, even though he had let me in through the gates to begin with. It wasn't like my appearing at his front steps should have been a shock.

“You look flushed, Gemma.”

“Well, it isn't exactly warm outside, Professor Lawson.”

He grinned, stepping aside and letting me in. After closing the door, he took my coat and hung it on a rack where several other similarly-styled black, woolen pea-coats were hung.

“I can't believe I'm actually standing here,” I added. “But we need to talk.”

Ben nodded, taking my hand and leading me into the living room. It was a strange thing, seeing everything for the first time. I think that the strangest part of it all was that while there was no denying the detailed beauty of the mansion – the deep-crimson walls trimmed in gold-colored paint, the high-arched windows, the floors so polished that I could see my reflection – the mansion itself was surprisingly empty.

As I walked into the living room, flames were dancing in the giant fireplace, an ornate rug woven with pomegranates and peonies spread out over the floor. Despite that, there was little else. Everything was mostly in boxes, it seemed.

“I haven't exactly got around to unpacking,” he said quietly. “To be honest, I never really considered just how overwhelming it would be furnishing this place.”

“Empty or not, it's still beautiful,” I said, staring up the Cathedral ceiling that seemed to go on for miles. Above the fireplace was an evidently aged painting of a woman wearing silk, her face turned away from the painter so that only a stream of dark hair fell down her back in waves. “Is that yours?”

“No,” he answered, and the two of us sat down by the fire. I rubbed my hands together, welcoming the warmth. “A lot of what's here, this rug included, was left behind when I purchased the house.”

Mansion
, I had to swallow the correction. This was anything but a simple house.

Sighing, I slid the envelope from my coat pocket and placed it down.

“I know that you're the mysterious guy that left this envelope of money at my apartment,” I said. “We can't accept this, Ben.”

“We?”

“I...I can't accept this. It's too much.”

Which it was, even if I hadn't actually bothered to count the contents. If Brandon was correct, and the amount was sufficient to pay our remaining rent for the duration of our lease – and then some – it
was
too much.

Ben looked at the envelope, his expression unreadable.

“It's a gift, Gemma,” he looked at me. “I would really like for you to accept it.”

“But it's money.”

“It's wasn't an act of charity. I'm not pitying you.”

He moved a little closer, taking my hands and wrapping his fingers around in such a way that the bones no longer hurt. The heat from his skin was even more consoling than the fire.

“I know that you're an independent young woman, and that you and Brandon can fend for yourselves. In fact, that's one of the things that I admire about you. I can see, even in this brief span of time, that you're strong. Maybe it's because you remind me a little bit of myself when I was your age, struggling just to obtain a degree while raising myself and barely knowing what was right, or wrong, or whether I'd make it out of the hole that I was in after everything was over. I can see it. This isn't meant to be some grand gesture of showing you that I have money, or that I'm above you in any way. I'm not. Believe me, I'm not. This is just a little help. This is me helping you, so that maybe you can get a proper night's sleep and focus on what matters presently. So that maybe you can breathe a little easier.”

I'll admit, it was hard to not shed a single tear after hearing those words. After seeing, so obviously, that he was not just a man who could easily and fluidly and beautifully weave together words. He was sincere.

“I can't ask you to help me,” I told him, my words choked and barely a whisper. He pulled me close, and I didn't want him to ever let go.

“You're not.”

Stroking my cheek lightly, I could sense that he was distressed. He chalked it up to worrying about my being cold, and after a few minutes of us sitting quietly by the fire as I rested against the warm, musky fabric of his sweater, he pulled me to my feet and led me into the kitchen where he proceeded in making tea.

“Chai or Oolong?” he asked, fumbling through the cabinets until he located the two tins. I glanced around the kitchen that while remarkably clean and utterly gorgeous: stainless steel appliances, black granite counter-tops, and dark-cherry finish on the wooden cabinets. It too was equally as barren as the rest of what I'd seen. The dining room across the hall rested beneath a hanging chandelier, but there were no chairs. Just another worn, dusty rug that pictured a bowl of fruit.

“Oolong,” I smiled, watching as he heated the water on the stove-top using a saucepan instead of a kettle. He poured the boiling water into two white mugs, handing me one carefully. It was warm, the color seeping from the paper like water colors, swirling and lovely. Ben stood leaning against the counter, blowing on his tea and toying with the string. “Maybe you could use a few of those boxes as seats for the dining room. Unless, of course, you aren't really planning on doing any entertaining.”