This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

  “Show me your favorite tree,” he said.

  My throat went dry as I tried to translate that. Cole stared at me. His eyes glimmered but, ever the actor, his mouth was in a neutral line. Waiting on me.

  Show him my favorite tree. Take me into cover with you.

  “Okay,” I whispered. And my voice trembled.

  I rolled onto the mixed terrain of dirt and bark pellets. I prayed the melted snow didn’t soak it enough to make me sink, and in my stupidity, I even voiced this to Cole.

  He walked close at my side. “I’ll just push you out.”

  The side of my wheel hit the sycamore closest to us and the ladder rattled. I fumbled for breath as Cole walked around me. In front of me.

  There he stood. Towering. Just a dark figure, but I knew every shadow and crevice, and I loved every shift of his body. He kept watching me, as if to make sure I was coherent and okay and with him in the present. The tree was at my back, close enough that he reached his arm over me and touched it. Its low braches sheltered us.

  “This one, huh?” said Cole.

  “Yeah,” I breathed. Oh God, he was going to touch me.

  “Not the one I can carry you up into?”

  Please touch me. I don’t know how, but please figure it out.

  Cole smiled, seeing I was too scared and excited and inebriated by him to reply.

  “Maybe next time,” said Cole.

  Without thinking, I flopped out an arm for him. It caught an inch of his sweatshirt but fell. He looked down at it then up at me, still wearing that smile.

  “What were you reaching for?”

  “You,” I said.

  “Is that all?”

  “I don’t know…” My voice trembled with anticipation.

  He thought about it for a beat. “You don’t need to reach for me.” To prove his words, he moved closer. His arm still held the tree branch, but he brought my leaden hand up to his lips. For a moment, I thought he would put my fingers in his mouth. Instead, he kissed them and let my arm fall again like a piece of iron. Just like that.

  We hung there, too long, too painfully. We didn’t move.

  His voice dropped an octave. “Do you want me to touch you?”

  Yes.

  “I need to know you want me to.” What did he want? Consent, or more attention? When he came out here, I wanted to talk and understand him and forge a deeper bond with him. But now that he asked me this, it was all I wanted.

  I nodded.

  His colossal shadow moved down to me and absorbed the space between us. The heat from his body engulfed me, seemed to pulse against me. Slowly, he grazed the stiff fronds of his beard across the sensitive skin of my face. I shuddered and reached a weak hand for him. My fingers found his soft jacket sleeve and curled to hold it.

  He breathed in jerks against my neck, but didn’t kiss me yet.

  “Cole,” I whispered, in the sort of way that didn’t need an answer. All of my fear disappeared. I felt safe with him. Completely.

  His hand reached down to my seat belt. “How?” he breathed.

  “Click it.”

  He did.

  “Reach in,” I said.

  It took some maneuvering. With his beard still scratching my neck, he used an arm to dig under my knees and shuffle me out a little. “I don’t know if I can,” he said.

  “You’re almost there,” I said. His hand was just inches away. With another shove under my waistband, he found me. I half-choked, half-gasped.

  My skin was sandpaper, and his fingers, the match. His hand convulsed with just the right pressure, just the right rhythm, and I had just enough time to think, Holy fucking god, this is happening, before my head swam into nothing. It took me a few moments to realize his other hand was busy on himself too. We both grunted. He seemed to support me, pin me just right against my chair with his strength. I heard his hand jerk irregularly below his belt, and he stepped even closer. Occasionally he swung his head up to glance around and make sure we were alone with the night. When the pleasure came, I collapsed against his broad shoulder and heaved breath in and out. My eyes closed and I snuggled into his coat.

  But we were both silent. He became very still.

  “You okay?” he panted, pulling back at last.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know.” Elation shook my voice.

  He chuckled. “You’re not okay.”

  “Did you get anything on my chair?” I said.

  He wiped a camo sleeve along the red bar of my chair fast. “Maybe.”

  I reached out a shaky hand for him. He caught it and rubbed my fingers.

  “Do you need me to fix you?” he said. I was lopsided in my chair.

  “Yeah.”

  He stepped around without hesitation and braced one arm at my back and the other under my knees, almost like he was going to carry me. With one yank, he righted me. “Good?” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We stood there awkwardly. No other words to be passed.

  “Well,” said Cole. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  He poked my nose with a finger. I looked up at him and we latched gazes. His still glowed.

  I stayed outside long after his Lexus zigzagged out of sight, the headlights streaming. I heard it zoom half a mile down the neighborhood. When I finally returned home, I asked Dad to put me to bed.

  He came into my bedroom, looked at my lap, and reached to click open my seat belt.

  It was already undone.

  I froze. Dad paused.

  He lifted me without comment.

  23

  Dad braked for the red light, and I surged forward and grasped the side of the ramp. “Sorry, Trout,” said Dad.

  He didn’t need to be. The more stop signs and assholes that cut him off, the more time I had to think about what I was going into. This was weird. I never was … nervous to see KC before now. But this secret he revealed, his feelings for me, it shook the Etch A Sketch version of him I had in my head and drew him with sharper lines, bolder blacks. I needed to figure out what those new lines meant. I needed to know if some of those lines could include me.

  The light flipped green and Dad accelerated, faster than Mom ever did. But not faster than Cole. I almost dropped my phone onto my footplate. Habitually, I tapped the screen.

  No replies from Cole or KC. To KC, I’d texted: On way. To Cole, a whopping six hours ago, I texted: Morning:)

  My lips pursed and I lifted my eyes from the phone to the window.

  The radio blasted Dad’s favorite classic rock station: Springsteen, Queen, AC/DC, the singles he grew up on. I didn’t recognize the current song, but it sounded like U2.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  Dad dialed down the volume. “What?”

  I repeated.

  “‘Stuck in a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of,’” said Dad.

  I watched traffic glide by out the window as the lyrics hit me. Tough love, speaking right to my idiocy. Bono said he never thought I was foolish, but “darling, look at you.”

  Funny. I actually smiled with irony. Looked down once more at my empty phone.

  Yeah. Look at me.

  * * *

  Bowling pins crashed and boomed in the alley. The fake wood floors glared back fluorescent ceiling lights. Pin decals danced on the walls, and grease cleaved to the knobs and levers of the ancient Pac-Man and Donkey Kong machines in the corner. It smelled faintly of french fries that I didn’t think they served here anymore and bowling shoes.

  KC and I agreed to meet here at 2:00 p.m., as it was one of the only cheap places besides the movie theater open the day after Thanksgiving. He slumped deep in a tan chair next to an empty aisle. A Shirley Temple on the table before him. The score display glowed above him on a boxy monitor. My wheels squeaked as I approached. I’d never been self-conscious of that kind of thing around KC until today. It must have been loud enough to draw his eyes, though.

  He shifted and rose. For an awkward beat, he just stood there and s
aid, “Hey.” As if I wouldn’t want to hug him like normal.

  So I wobbled out my arm and clawed his shirt sleeve. My finger snagged a button on his sleeve, and I tugged. Reeled him into me. His lean arms enveloped me. I’d say they caged me, secured me, locked me to his warmth, but no amount of sweetness could remove the connotation of cage.

  But he never quite squeezed me in. He held me like I was fragile, only close enough for my senses to pay attention to him rather than be engulfed by him. Sometimes, when I know someone’s coming down to embrace me, I flip my joystick power off real subtly. Too much body and they might hit it and make me swerve. With KC … I never felt I had to.

  KC’s breath shook. I just closed my eyes and held him. His scent was familiar and soothing, mixed with cherries from his Shirley Temple. He said hey again, and his gentle voice was peace in my ears. The light blue plaid shirt he wore had been through the wash too many times, making it extra fuzzy.

  “Want to play?” I said when he pulled back. KC nodded, almost as if relieved I’d asked.

  The staff pushed out this strange, three-foot-high metal slide used to help me bowl. The ball had to be placed at the top, then, with absolutely zero skill, I’d nudge it down the slide and the ball would topple and roll uncomfortably slowly towards the pins while everyone watched. If I struck down a decent amount, I got high-fives I did nothing to earn. But it was fun.

  “We need to rent you some shoes?” I said.

  “Nah,” said KC. “I brought some.”

  I raised an eyebrow as he pulled a beat-up pair of bowling shoes from his backpack.

  “Bowl often?” I said. I remembered he’d brought a deteriorated pair of ice skates from home that one time too.

  “Not … really,” said KC. He didn’t look up to meet my eyes as he put them on. I thought the skin of his neck reddened.

  KC took the first turn. He exhaled through his lips and poised himself, holding up the ball with both hands facing him. I noticed his shoulders square, his muscles ripple. Then he skirted forward and swung it. The ball coursed down the aisle and hit a complete strike. Boom!

  I glanced at KC. He continued to stare at the pins as they were swept away. He panted. I couldn’t decide if that performance was anger or nerves, but I don’t think he counted it down for skill.

  “KC,” I said.

  He looked over. An urge to touch him prickled beneath my skin, but it was different than the urges I had for Cole. Did it matter? They were different people. I was looking at someone I’d loved for years.

  Wasn’t I?

  My voice was a whisper. “Want to talk?”

  His eyes clung to me. Above, the monitor flashed that it was my turn.

  “No,” said KC. “Not yet. It’s your turn.”

  I glanced to the monitor as if to chastise it and moved forward. KC swiveled the metal slide in place. He crouched and eyeballed the angle. Helping me get the perfect shot. Something in my heart wriggled.

  When he heaved the maroon bowling ball onto the slide, my hand fell in line with his. We touched fingertips and froze. The heat between our skin was sticky, not electric. My reaction was instinctual—I rubbed him with my thumb. KC swallowed. Together, we shoved the ball down the slide. The huge slide clacked and the ball rolled five miles-per-year towards the pins. KC rested his clasped hands atop his head and watched it.

  With one more bowl, we earned a spare together.

  “I never knew you liked me, KC,” I said softly.

  KC smirked and walked over to his seat. “I’m easy to miss.”

  “No,” I said.

  “You can just tell me,” said KC. “It’s cool.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you don’t like me back.”

  “If I didn’t, I’d tell you.” Ugh. This was confusing and not fair to him, but it was the truth.

  “Maeve, it’s a pretty easy question.”

  “It’s not, KC. It’s…”

  He let me finish.

  “It’s a shock for me, because I’ve always loved you, and now I’m questioning what type that love ever was.”

  Hope sort of blended with the sheepishness in KC’s eyes at the word love, and I prayed I wouldn’t have to hurt him. It was like a million feelings were knocking on a million doors inside me, and I was hiding under the couch with the shades drawn.

  “If you’ll give me some time, I’ll figure out what this is I’m feeling,” I said. “But you have to let me figure it out.”

  “Okay,” said KC. Although I know this was emotional for him, he was ever practical, ever downbeat. For some reason, that comforted me. Normalcy spilled back into my chest.

  “It’s your turn.”

  We bowled the entire game and loosened up as it went on. The more KC smiled, the more I did too. Soon, I’m not sure I ever stopped.

  After, a staff member refilled KC’s drink and brought one for me too. We sipped.

  “I love being out with you,” said KC.

  “I do too,” I said.

  “I like helping you.”

  I chuckled. “Thanks. Plenty more where that came from.” I punched him with awkward weakness. “… Sport.”

  Like usual, he just watched my fist pathetically slip away.

  “I don’t know.” KC’s voice was low. “You make things a little better.”

  “The world still suck?” I said.

  “Lots of people should probably just die.” KC wasn’t bantering. I shook my head and just sipped my drink.

  “Want some food?” he said. “I brought snacks.” He pulled out a little lunch pail from his backpack. An ice pack was inside—including a banana and some yogurt. I opted for the banana, he took the yogurt. KC peeled it for me before handing it over.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” said KC.

  I resisted recoiling. Cole poking my nose lovingly flashed back to me.

  My teeth sank into the banana, and KC scooped some yogurt into his mouth.

  He blanched. KC choked and dropped the spoon.

  “KC,” I piped. “K—”

  He clutched his stomach and coughed so hard his eyes streamed. My heart raced. How do you choke on yogurt? “KC!” Some of the staff craned their heads to check it out.

  “It’s okay,” he wheezed. “It’s—” He glared at the yogurt. Before he could pull it away, I snatched it and turned it to read the expiration date.

  My eyes bulged. It wasn’t just a few weeks overdue, even a few months …

  “KC, this is two years past date.”

  “Yeah,” he spat, “I didn’t notice.”

  “KC,” I said.

  Something … something didn’t feel right. The random film props. The old skates. The bowling shoes. This yogurt.

  But mostly, the way he looked at me now: with defeated … shame?

  “Don’t worry about it,” said KC.

  “Why don’t you want me to come to your house?” I said.

  “Maeve, please.” He swiped for the yogurt.

  “KC, what’s going on at home?”

  “Stop! Okay?”

  I tried to touch his hand. He jerked it back. “I—I gotta go.”

  “KC.” My voice was sweet.

  “I’m sorry,” said KC. “I’ll—I’ll text you later.” He rose and streaked for the exit before I could call him back.

  I blinked and leaned back in my chair. The feelings knocking at the doors forced in the walls and broke the windows and love and fear and confusion flooded in, taking the form of tears swimming in my eyes.

  Dad would be here soon to pick me up, but I couldn’t move.

  “Miss?” A staff member finally approached me. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No,” I said. “Just … the bill please.”

  “You’re good to go, miss,” said the staffer. “Your friend already paid.”

  24

  My heart skipped. As much as I loved Elliot, I was disappointed the text was from him. And no, I didn’t want it to be from Cole either.


  KC hadn’t returned any of my messages. I even tried to call. Twice. I started thinking about where I’d draw the line before I’d need to alert another adult. It’d been three days since KC ran out of the bowling alley. Four since I’d seen Cole. He avoided replying too. Next week was the last week of film class, the day we premiered our final video. Then we’d all hibernate and plan our next projects and pray the principal allowed Billings to film the baseball team this season so we could enroll again in the spring.

  He was probably the affectionate drunk, not the aggressive one. That was probably why so many sophomores at the community college offered to buy for him.

  While I bantered, I didn’t feel any humor. My mouth was set.

  The temperature in my body dropped a little. How could I answer that now?

  I hadn’t reached out to Mags either. It’s not that I thought it’d bother her or she wouldn’t care. I just … felt like I needed to work this out myself. And by the silence on her end, she must have thought the same.

  I sighed. François rumbled out snores beneath the kitchen table where I sat. His head rested against my front wheel: that was how much he trusted me. Opened on the surface before me was the Beauty and the Beast script I’d been reading and a dish of Flintstones vitamins and potassium supplements Mom wanted me to eat.

  After a moment’s thought, I grimaced and pushed off the table. François leapt up.

  “Mom, I’m going for a walk,” I said, passing by her office.

  Mom was scrolling through a PowerPoint for her work presentation next week. “What?” she said.

  “I’m. Going. For. A. Walk.” I didn’t mean to be grumpy to her, but …

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” said Mom. “It’s getting cold today.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Did you eat the vitamins?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t mean to lie either.

  “Let me at least put a co—”

  I rammed the door open with the side of my chair.

  True, it was supposed to get colder, and next week they forecasted more snow. But today was typical of bipolar Fredericksburg winters. It was wet and mild. I relished the gentle splash and ripples from my wheels slicing through puddles on the street.