by Scott, Kylie
“Ed.” I push his hand away, slowly sitting up. “Don’t.”
“Sorry. Can I help? Are you all right? Should you be moving?”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Clem, half of your face is black and blue,” he says, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Not my definition of fine.”
“It could have been worse. At least I didn’t hit the damaged side when I blacked out and fell.”
“What, so you’re Jessica Jones now and nothing can touch you?”
I start to frown, then stop. It hurts. “I don’t know who that is.”
He hangs his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. Pretty sure it means I’m pissing him off. They shouldn’t have dragged him all the way over here. God knows what he was busy doing. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back. A pair of black sunglasses sit on top of his head. Maybe he was at work. Maybe he was prepping for a lunch date. I don’t know if that would bother me or not. Not that I have any claim on him. But best not to think about it just the same.
At least I feel too crappy for any of the worrisome pants-tingling thing this time.
“Why didn’t they call Frances?” I ask.
“They did. She couldn’t leave work, so she called me,” he not so patiently explains. “Guess she didn’t have any other options. Plus, I was also probably closest. The doctor said you could go?”
“Yes. If you want to get out of the way?”
He stands and I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Everything mostly feels okay. All of my parts in working order.
“Do you need any meds?” he asks, hand hovering by my elbow just in case.
“Just Tylenol, which we have at home.”
“Okay.” A heavy sigh. “All right. You better come to my place.”
“What? No.” The bottom of my T-shirt had ridden up a little and I tug it back down. “She shouldn’t have called you. Sorry about that. But I’m all good, and I’ll be fine getting back on my own.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“You get a concussion when you hit your head?”
“A mild one.” I shrug. “At least nobody tried to kill me this time. I’ll catch a cab back and rest up, put another ice pack on.”
“Doctor told you not to be on your own, didn’t he? That’s why Frances called me in here,” he says, leaning closer. “But instead of being reasonable, you’ve got to be a pain in the ass about it.”
“Ed, why are you being like this? You don’t want me in your life.”
“You know what I want even less? To have to talk you into letting me look after you for an afternoon, as if it’s something I want and you’d be doing me this great favor,” he says, jaw clenched. “Honestly, it’s like nails scratching down the chalkboard of my soul.”
“Well, that’s dramatic. Here’s your chance to walk away. Take it.”
“Not going to happen. Not when you look like you’ve been running around Nakatomi Plaza fighting Hans.”
“Again, no idea what you’re talking about.”
He just blinked. “It’s one of your favorite movies.”
“Just assume all cultural references mean nothing to me.”
“Really? Huh,” he says, taking a step back. Thank God. “You get to watch Die Hard again for the first time. I’m almost jealous of you.”
For a moment, neither of us talks.
“So, Clem, you want to stand here and fight some more?”
“No.”
“Good. You can lie on the couch with your ice pack at my place. If you feel like it, I’ll put on a movie for you to watch.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Shop’s closed on Monday. Stop looking for excuses.”
Damn. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“If there was literally any other option presenting itself, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
I sigh, feeling a bit guilty that I was so bereft of friends and he was all I had. “All right. Lead on. And sorry.”
We don’t talk in the car, letting the silence grow nice and long and awkward instead. As previously texted, Ed lives in a big old red/brown brick building in the same cool urban neighborhood as the tattoo parlor. Five blocks away from his work at the most. The condo is on the ground floor.
“This is where we lived?” I ask, following him down the white hallway.
“Yes.”
“I appreciate you doing this.”
“Oh, I can tell. You’re positively overflowing with appreciation.”
And I deserve that. “I don’t want to be indebted to someone who hates me.”
“That why you stopped sending questions?”
“One of the reasons.”
“Yeah? What are the others?” He puts his key in the lock and from within comes barking and the sound of nails scratching. Whatever is on the other side of the door seriously wants out. “Shit, stand back a sec.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Cautiously, Ed opens the door, just enough to stick a hand through and grab the collar of the dog. The dog, on the other hand, wriggles and struggles and fights to get free.
“Gordon,” he says. “Yes, it’s Clem. But that’s enough. Calm down.”
The dog does not calm down. If anything, at the sight of me, his enthusiasm goes up a notch. Gordon is a silver Staffordshire terrier with pale blue eyes and a white stripe down his chest. Step by step, Ed hustles him back into the house. And all the while, his tail whips back and forth in unrestrained joy.
“Close the door behind you,” he instructs me. Then, to Gordon, he says, “Come on, boy. Sit. I know you’re excited, but you got to sit.”
Gordon whines softly, keeping his gaze on me all the while.
“Clem, come over here and let him sniff your hand.”
I do as told, carefully extending my fingers to within range of his nose. But Gordon inches forward, licking my palm and as much of my arm as he can reach. His whole body shakes with happiness and I swear he smiles. I rub beneath his chin, coming closer.
“I’ll let him go in a minute,” says Ed, patting him on the back. “Just want to make sure he doesn’t get carried away and you get knocked over again.”
And while his words seem polite, his voice sounds strained, bitter even. Maybe he thinks Gordon is giving me a welcome I don’t deserve. It might be true, but with the day I’ve had, the dog’s sheer happiness is welcome.
I go down on one knee, all the better to scratch behind his ears. But Gordon decides to go one better and roll onto his back, asking for belly rubs instead. No one has ever been this happy to see me. Frances was relieved when I woke up from the induced coma. However, this is something entirely different.
All of the stress of the day catches up with me. Waking up on the hard-tiled café floor with people surrounding me. The pain and fear. I’m grinning at the dog, but my throat tightens and a tear falls down my cheek. “What a good boy, yes you are, and so handsome too.”
“In the place for less than a minute and you’re already babying him again.”
“I like dogs,” I say with wonder.
“You haven’t pet any others?”
I shake my head. “No.”
It must sound weird, but for a moment the hostility is gone from his face, and Ed just smiles. The curve of his lips there and gone in an instant. No surprise that he too is a very handsome boy. My stomach does some weird swooping thing in response to his nearness. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, the way I react to him. It’s not real, just leftovers from another life. Not that knowing it helps me or the situation any.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
With the back of my hand, I wipe away the inconvenient tears while doing my best to ignore my reaction to him entirely. Talk about overload. “Yes. Just . . . not a great day. It’s better now though.”
I rise and Gordon rolls back onto his feet, content to rub himself against my legs and sniff my sh
oes. Beneath my fingers, his short fur feels like velvet, his still-wriggling body warm and solid. The devotion in his eyes is stunning. I think I’m in love. When Ed gives him a stern warning, he doesn’t jump, taking the opportunity to learn farther into me. And he’s strong. I have to brace myself, so I don’t stumble back a step.
“You should get that shirt off,” says Ed.
“Why?”
“There’s some blood from when your cheek split.” He points at the front. “It needs to go in the wash. I’ll grab you something of mine to put on.”
I ease it up off over my bruised face, holding it out.
Mouth a tight line, he turns away, ripping the item of clothing out of my hand. “Clem, I didn’t mean . . .”
“What? You told me to give it to you.”
“Do me a favor and keep your clothes on in front of me, okay?”
I scrunch up my face. Which hurts on both sides now, courtesy of this morning’s injury. “Ow. It’s nothing you apparently haven’t seen many times before.”
“Yeah, and I don’t need to see it again. Ever.”
Huh. I give myself a quick look over. My breasts might be on the smaller side, but they look quite nice in the pale-green lace bra. It’s pretty. Previous me was into pretty. And while my stomach is far from flat, everything seems reasonably in proportion.
“Fuck’s sake, would you stop that,” he growls. “There’s nothing wrong with your body.”
“No, I didn’t think there was. So it’s a problem with you, not me. Okay.”
“No, it’s not a problem with me. Or you. It’s a problem with us.” He glares at me, his amber-colored eyes growing darker. They’re very expressive. How the light in them tells of his mood, reflecting some of his thoughts. Right now, he’s angry. Again.
People in general fascinate me. Yet Ed takes it to a whole new level. I don’t know if it’s the knowledge that we have history or just his hotness. Truth is, I could watch him for hours. No, days. With the bonus that attempting to read him distracts me from feeling how every bit of me from the neck up is hurting.
“Were you always this moody?” I ask, genuinely curious.
In lieu of responding, he walks off into the back hallway, shaking his head. I do my best not to stare at his ass, despite it seeming to be particularly spectacular. Tight. A nice handful, but not too much. It’s a definite, I approve of his ass.
Meanwhile, Gordon looks between us before deciding to stick with me. Good dog.
The place has high ceilings and an open living area. Living room followed by a kitchen and dining area. It looks recently renovated. White rectangular tiles in the kitchen with black grout between. White cupboards, a shiny black counter, and aluminum appliances and pendant lights.
He doesn’t have a lot of furniture, but what he has is nice. Two dark gray sofas, chunky wooden coffee table, and matching dining table and chairs. Paintings and drawings hang on the walls. All done by the same artist, which is undoubtedly him. No tattoo designs, maybe he keeps those at the shop. Instead, these are portraits and landscapes or cityscapes. A picture of the front of his shop with people wandering by on the sidewalk. Gordon sitting outside on the grass rendered in exquisite detail. The man is talented.
Next in the house comes a small hallway with rooms opening off to each side. A similarly renovated bathroom, an office, art studio, or small spare-bedroom type space, and the main bedroom. I reach the doorway of the last just in time to have a T-shirt flung at me.
“Thanks.”
A grunt. “Lie down; I’ll get the icepack.”
His bed is huge with dark blue sheets and comforter. Through the open closet door, I can see half of the space is still unoccupied. Like a line has been drawn down the middle. We only lived together for a bit over half a year, but I guess previous me just moved out what was actually a short time ago. It’d be better if he’d shifted his stuff and taken up all of the space. Because if he’s still processing (a Doctor Patel word) the breakup, then I really shouldn’t be here. This isn’t even remotely fair to him. Then again, it’s not like I’m having the best time either.
I pull the T-shirt over my head and take a seat. Gordon stands by the side of the bed, resting his chin on the mattress. Guess he’s not allowed on. After a moment, he sinks to the floor with a heavy sigh and closes his eyes.
Ed enters with a bag of frozen vegetables in one hand, a glass of water and Tylenol bottle in the other. The water and painkillers he sets on the small bedside table, while the mix of peas, corn, and beans is gently applied to the side of my face. After this, he sits down at the bottom of the bed, well away from me. I think we both appreciate the space.
“Thanks,” I say, lying back.
He gives a nod.
My fingers twist and turn in the hem of his black T-shirt. “I like the darker colors, but all I seem to own is light, happy shit. Why is that?”
“It’s what you liked at the time.”
On the wall is a framed drawing of a woman’s back, the line of her spine, the flare of her hips, and curve of her ass done in simple lines.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding at the picture.
“Just a girl.”
“Wasn’t I jealous, having a picture of another woman hanging in your bedroom?”
He turns away, brows raised. “If you were, you never said anything. Then again, getting you to say what you were thinking used to be fucking impossible. Now it all just comes out.”
“I don’t mean to upset you.”
“I know. There’s no filter, huh?”
“Pretty much. Or at least, it’s at a reduced working capacity. Sorry about taking my top off before.” I stare at the ceiling with the eye that isn’t covered in frozen goods. “I heard a story about a woman who was a mediator, really good at dealing with people, getting them to find common ground. She had a bad car crash. Total personality change. She just became this nasty person who said horrible things all the time. Couldn’t help herself. Isn’t that sad?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, forgetting your life is bad enough. But not being able to rebuild . . .”
He sets his ankle on the opposite knee, getting comfortable. “You were going to tell me the other reasons why you stopped texting me questions.”
“No, I wasn’t. But since you’re asking, why not.” I half smile. “The information I get from Frances doesn’t feel totally reliable. I feel like it’s influenced by her personal beliefs and biases.”
“Like her not telling you about me?”
“Exactly,” I say. “We were almost constantly together for the last year or so and she never even mentioned your name. She says she was protecting me and would have told me eventually.”
He thinks it over. “Are you worried about my biases?”
I shuffle around a little, getting comfortable. Trying not to think about how this is the bed where our bodies used to meet in all the ways. Or at least I assume so. “Who I am, the person I become, that’s on me. But I don’t need anyone messing around with what’s left of my head. You said you’re still angry at me. I mean, you obviously are, and that has to affect how you see things, what you tell me.”
“I guess so, yeah.” He nods. “But it’s not new.”
“What’s not new?”
“You being suspicious of me. It might even be said that it turned out to be something of a defining feature of our relationship.”
I wonder if maybe I am a suspicious person. Suspicious of him. Of Frances. Of everyone. There was a moment when I was walking to the café the other day when I could have sworn someone was following me. But it was nothing. “Is this something we can talk about?”
“Why don’t you just start from scratch?” he asks. “I don’t think anyone can completely keep their own feelings and experiences out of what they tell you. People just don’t work that way. But do you really need all of the history to start moving forward?”
“I don’t know.”
On the floor, Gordon farts, and we bot
h wrinkle our noses. Dog farts are gross. Another definite.
“If you want, I’ll still answer your questions,” says Ed.
“But only some questions . . .”
He frowns, taking his time to respond. “I don’t hate you, all right? It just hasn’t been that long, and some of the stuff you’re asking about is still a little raw.”
“Understandable.”
Outside, a bird calls and a car drives past. Life goes on for billions of people regardless of what’s happening here and now for me. It’s a lot to get my head around. Especially with the lingering headache.
The ceiling in Ed’s bedroom is as high as the one out in the living area. I like the feeling of space, the scent of him on the sheets. Laundry detergent, a trace of cologne, and him. For some reason, it’s comforting.
“Who do you think I am?” I ask, still holding the thawing bag to my face. My fingers have long since gone numb from the cold. “How would you describe me?”
“You’re Clementine Johns. Twenty-five years old. Work in a bank. You’re kind, nervous sometimes, tend to overthink shit and worry about people’s opinions. Meaning you don’t always let others know what’s on your mind.” He sets his foot back on the floor, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “You’re good with figures and you like reading, Italian food, and hanging out with friends. Not that you had a lot.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
“The thing was, you dropped out of college to look after your mother for two years when she was sick. Watching her die in so much pain . . . well, it’d be hard on anyone,” he explains. “Anyway, you leaving college to take care of your mom meant you lost touch with most of your initial college friends. Then you didn’t necessarily have a lot in common with the younger college kids when you went back, or even people your own age. Or that’s how you explained it to me. I think in the year or two after your mom died you were pretty reserved. Doesn’t make it easy to meet people. After we started seeing each other, you grew close to some of my friends, but after the breakup . . .”
