by Tempest Phan
He stepped toward the nook, his shoulders so rigid I figured he’d have a hell of a tension headache later. “The way he looks. The way he is. Who he is, and by that, just so we’re clear, I mean that he is not good enough for you.”
Who he is.
Didn’t he know that Damien was one of the best people he’d ever have the chance to meet?
Fuck him and his inflexible pre-conceived notions.
I looked at him, my eyes challenging him. I got up to head back to my room. My dad grabbed my hand as I walked by him, stopping me. “I’m serious, Mira.” I glared at him, feeling the disgust drip from my eyes onto my face, pulled my arm away, and ran back upstairs.
***
We were in the field, alongside the football team. Dame had tagged along, sitting on the bleachers, watching me practice my new cheers. I’d worn a pair of old black stretchy shorts, long ago relegated to an unused pile as I’d grown out of them. They barely covered my ass and showed an obscene amount of leg. And yet, I’d put them on, somehow wanting to look desirable. But desirable to whom?
When Dame had come to pick me up this morning, furtively parking a few properties down so my dad wouldn’t catch us, my breath caught. He’d stepped out of his car to open the passenger door for me. His hair was slicked back à la James Dean, making him look utterly dangerous, utterly delectable. Without the strands falling haphazardly over his brow, over his cheekbones, his beautiful face was in plain view, the symmetry of angles and sharp lines so prominent and perfect. He was beyond gorgeous, the sculpted face you saw on male underwear models. I’d been flustered at first.
And now he looked amused, and who could blame him? This cheer crap was obviously ridiculous and quite shallow. Regardless, I blew him a kiss as I did toe touches off my box. He winked and I laughed.
“All right girls, take five.” This from Rach, captain of our squad.
She bounced over to me, playing with her long, brunette ponytail, and looked at Dame. “Damn that dude is hot. Totally scary, but so fucking hot.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I lied. “We’re just friends.” I chewed on my bottom lip.
She looked at me and smiled.
I ran over to the bleachers.
“I know you’re laughing at me, Dame.” I said, smiling myself, wiping the sweat from my brow.
He sauntered toward me. “With you Bella, with you, not at you.”
I laughed, for no reason other than I was ridiculously happy to have him here. He looked up behind me. As I turned around, I realized Jon had come over, sweaty from practice, too, his helmet in one hand. He gave my shorts-clad butt a playful slap, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and kissed me. This blatant display of possessiveness annoyed me, and I pulled away, removing the bloated arm he’d draped around me.
“Hey Jon,” I said, trying to keep the sharp edge from my voice and failing miserably.
“Hey Mira. We’re about to wrap up here. You and the girls about ready? Want to join us for burgers?”
I glanced over at Dame, who looked as amused as ever. Finally, he stepped forward, fist extended.
“I’m Damien Mortensen, by the way.” His voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the confidence seeping from it.
Jon looked up, seemed to soften a bit, and met Dame in a fist bump.
“Jon Hunting,” he said, a vaguely fake smile on his lips. “Mira’s boyfriend.” The way he let those last words linger on his tongue before spitting them out heightened my annoyance.
I exhaled slowly.
Jon stiffened, but before he could say anything else, Dame interjected, “Ah, yes. Boyfriend. I figured.” He winked at me and had that amused little half smile on his lips, the one that seemed to indicate that he didn’t think much of Jon’s obvious and awkward attempts to mark his territory—as if I were some thing to mark.
Jon turned back to me, making it obvious he was ignoring Dame now. “So, you coming?”
“Nah. Can’t. We’ve got another thirty minutes or so of practice. But you go on ahead.”
“Ok. By the way, are you volunteering tonight?” He looked ready to implode.
I nodded. “I have a shift at six.”
Jon shook his head. “I don’t know why you continue to do that bullshit. You already got your early college admissions. Quit so we can hang more?” He pulled me back into his embrace as he said that. His arms were tense.
I sighed, disentangling myself again. “Seriously, Jon. There are more important things in life than just doing stuff to get into places. Anyways, this was lovely, but Rach is calling me back.”
“Ok. But did Lynda drive you over? How are you getting home?”
His line of questioning was starting to grate.
“No, Jon. Dame will take me home.”
“Now, Mira.” There was a hint of warning in Jon’s voice, and I didn’t like it at all. Who did he think he was? Just because we’d been dating for close to two months now didn’t mean he owned me.
“Now, Jon,” I mimicked, holding his stare. “Your burger is calling. And I’ll see you Sunday.”
He looked at me, anger in his eyes. Why had I never noticed before how possessive he was?
Finally, he dragged his eyes away from mine, only to look me up and down, his gaze insulting as it stopped on my shorts.
I guess he wasn’t done.
“Aren’t those a bit short, Mira?”
I tensed up. Before I could think of a proper retort, Damien cut in.
“That’s why they’re called shorts, Jon,” he said very softly, his voice neutral, but I could see an edge to his eyes, sense an edge to his stance. He was just on this side of dangerous. Only just.
And he was standing up for me once again.
Jon glanced back at Dame, glaring at him, his face ruddy as he spat out, “That’s none of your damn business, Mortensen.”
“Right, Jon. None of my damn business what Mirabella chooses to wear.” His voice was soft, so soft still, but careful neutrality was now edged with darkness and shadows. And yet, his face gave nothing away. He seemed unaffected by my boyfriend’s display of emotions. He kept him pinned down instead with his dark, unyielding stare. Unflinching. “And none of yours, either.” His full lips turned up in a smile that did not reach his eyes, a smile so cold that I felt a shiver snake down my spine.
Jon paled. He stuttered something unintelligible before turning to me, his eyes still full of barely contained spite. “Ok. But I’ll see you Sunday, then?”
I nodded.
“Bye, Jon!” Dame said, and I could swear I heard a touch of mockery in his soft bass-baritone.
Jon didn’t deign respond and walked away, helmet in hand, sweat still dripping from him.
I turned back to Damien, who was looking at me intently. I couldn’t quite place the look in his sky blue eyes.
“Thank you, Dame,” I said. I didn’t need to explain why. He smiled at me, which made my heart soar.
“Those shorts are cute,” he whispered, taking my ponytail and tossing it back over my shoulder, making me grin.
His words, once again, were balm to my heart.
“Glad you think so,” I responded softly. He winked at me, which also brought back my playfulness. “You weren’t on your best behavior, were you?” I said, teasing.
“I was. He’s just a bit uptight, isn’t he.”
“He’s just a bit threatened.”
“He shouldn’t be,” Damien shot back, laughing.
I don’t know why but my heart sank a bit.
“I forgot. I’m not anywhere near tall enough or blond enough to be your type.” I sounded morose in spite of myself.
“Hey hey now,” he said softly, reaching to pull me into a bear hug. “It’s not like that. At. All. I just love you too much as a friend to risk any of it. And you’ve got a boyfriend,” he reminded me gently.
“Well, yes. I’ve got a BF. And don’t worry, you’re not my type either,” I said sullenly, childishly, closing my eyes as I breathed him in. In two
days, I’d received more friendly hugs than in the last five years combined. In fact, the last one had likely come from him, as he’d hugged me goodbye when we were twelve.
And now, being enfolded in his arms not only filled my empty heart, but also gave me weird sensations in the pit of my stomach. What was wrong with me? “Not my type,” I said again, softly, before pushing away from him and walking back to the girls who were calling me back to practice.
“I can see that.” He laughed. “You like them big, blond, and sweaty.”
“I guess we have the same type, then, huh?” I said without turning around.
“Ha. Nope. I only go for brunettes.” He smiled. “And I’m still taking you home, right?”
“Yes,” I mumbled without looking back.
***
Damien
I watched her walk away, a knot in my stomach. I hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings.
Not my type? Did she not know that none of the girls on the squad—in this town, any town—could ever…
Stop.
I couldn’t think of her in that way, not if I was to survive being back in her life, not if she were to survive being back in mine.
And to think that asshole boyfriend of hers had dared criticize her. It had taken a fair amount of restraint on my part to not punch his smug face out. But I was used to restraint, to keeping a tight leash on my emotions. That had been key to my survival all these last, hellish years.
I looked on as she practiced, so incredibly adorable, jumping around and chanting nonsensically. I shook my head. She then flew to the top of some sort of extension, held up by one other cheerleader, balancing on one foot with the other leg thrown behind her and curving up, almost like a swan. She was precariously high, and I kept watching, feeling tense at how dangerous this stunt looked. She brought out every protective instinct in me. Brotherly protective instinct.
A pang of panic quickly gave way to a sense of relief once her feet hit the solid ground. Practice was over. She came running toward me.
“Gimme ten minutes to hit the showers and I’ll meet you at your car.” Her airy, musical voice was a shade raspier as she struggled to catch her breath.
I slowly made my way to the parking lot. There were a few people walking around, mostly teachers, as this was the last Friday before the start of school. Each adult I passed gave me a long, hard look. I knew they were sizing me up, trying to determine how much trouble I would be. Me, this pierced, tattooed, sullen boy who returned each of their pointed stares by looking straight into their eyes, cigarette in mouth.
“No smoking on campus,” one of them called out.
“Yeah.” And I kept walking. He didn’t try to stop me.
I stood by my beat-up car, leaning against the passenger side, waiting for Bella to materialize. She did, carrying a gym bag nearly her own size, her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail, her skin still flushed. I crushed my cigarette with my foot before making my way toward her.
“Allow me.” I grabbed her bag.
“Hey, I can take care of it myself.”
“I know you can. But it will be faster this way.” I smiled down at her. She returned my smile, clearly not one to hold grudges, and began to walk ahead. I ran after her, beating her to the car and opening the passenger side for her.
“What a gentleman!” She smiled.
“You should never expect any less from a guy,” I responded in all seriousness. She looked at me in a way that made my breath catch. I threw her bag into the back of the car.
“Where to, baby girl?”
“Baby girl!” And she started to giggle, a sound so light and musical, it seemed to float in the air around us, before twirling back down and landing a solid punch to my stomach. “Why did you do that?”
“What’s that?”
“Call me that,” she punctuated that last word with the wave of her hand.
Fuck, I hadn’t even realized it until she’d pointed it out. I shrugged. “I care about you, and that’s what comes to mind when I talk to you.”
She laughed again. “That makes no sense, Damien. But I’ll take it!”
“So where to, baby girl,” I repeated.
She smiled before responding, “Food! But I don’t think I could stomach any more fast food. Take me home—I’ll see about fixing us something.” She must have read my mind because she added, “My dad is out of town for three days. He won’t know you were over.”
“You’re ok with us sneaking behind his back at your house like that?” I ran a hand over my freshly shaven jaw. I realized I’d sounded a tad judgmental, but I hadn’t meant to. I guess I was still in awe of fathers who cared enough to ask how their kids spent their time.
She shrugged. I didn’t push it. Instead, I said, “All right but I have a better idea. How about I make us something while you just relax.”
She looked at me in surprise.
“Yup, I can cook somewhat.” I winked at her. Years of having to fend for my mom and me had taught me well.
And food was love.
“Well, I guess anything will be better than my repertoire, which is only comprised of cheese sandwiches or PB&J sandwiches.”
“Yeah, let’s not do that,” I said as we both laughed.
I pulled into her circular driveway, ran around to open the door for her but she leapt out, letting out a victorious hoot while doing some adorably dorky dance.
“Ha! Too slow,” she laughed.
My heart swelled dangerously at her antics.
Get a hold of yourself, asshole.
She ran up the steps to her front door while I grabbed her gym bag. She punched in her keycode and we were in.
Nothing brought home our different upbringings like standing in the foyer of her house. The french doors opened to a great hall, with what looked to be marble staircases on each side leading to a mezzanine and balcony overlooking it all. Everything was so bright, and white, and pristine. So unlike the dark, dank places my mom and I had ever lived in.
We walked toward the kitchen, passing by a large, formally appointed room that bled into the gargantuan marble hallway, leading my eyes directly toward a grand piano, its dark ebony frame gleaming among all of the white and cream.
I remembered that piano and vague images of Bella’s mom bent over its ivory keys as her music echoed throughout the cavernous mansion. I wondered if there was still music in baby girl’s life, now.
She saw me staring at the piano and said lightly, “Funny how I used to hate my piano lessons so much when my mom was still around. Now, I can’t even imagine my life without music.” And her unspoken words: life was still hard to imagine without her mom there.
I squeezed her hand as we passed by the room and a windowpane-filled study or library across from it. We walked into the kitchen. That, too, looked like it could have graced the pages of a fancy architectural magazine. It was huge, probably as big, if not bigger than my entire house, with a row of stainless steel ovens and a large, one-piece stove top. I was lost. Her turn to give my hand a small squeeze. I looked at her bright, beautiful face and smiled back.
Bella
“Come on,” I laughed. “Get to it, Iron Chef!”
I watched him as he poked around in the pantries and fridge.
“Bella, you’re vegetarian and not vegan, yeah?”
“Yup.”
He walked back to the island and set down all the ingredients he’s scrounged up. I sat on one of the stools facing him across the large slab of granite and watched him break eggs and whisk them with a fork.
“Can’t I help, Dame?” I asked.
“Just watch and learn, sweetie. Watch and learn,” he said as he chopped herbs and added them to the bowl.
He grabbed some flour, dumped it onto the workstation and added a couple of spoonfuls of olive oil. He mixed it with his fingers, kneading lightly until it formed a soft mound of dough.
I was fascinated by the movement of his hands, of his long fingers. I let out a long breath as he then gra
bbed an oven dish and lined it with the dough.
I laughed as he winked at me and poured his egg concoction into the pan which he slid into one of the ovens. Turning his attention to a head of lettuce, he proceeded to wash it and prep it into a large salad bowl.
“A quiche Lorraine and salad! You are a fucking awesome Iron Chef!” I yelled out and walked over to stand near him.
“Minus the bacon, yes. And you’re pretty fucking awesome yourself.” He smiled back at me, smiled his gorgeous and devastating smile. I lost my breath.
Trying to change the subject, I said, “My dad’s out of town. You could stay tonight and maybe watch a movie with me?”
He hesitated for a minute before nodding.
“So, Dame, what are your plans after senior year?”
He shrugged. “I need to stay in town to help my mom out.”
I slowly nodded, tapping my lips with my fingers. “Ok. Thinking college or no?”
“Pshh. Fuck no,” he replied, running his flour-covered hands through his dark hair, leaving streaks of white behind. “I just want to work on my music, baby girl.”
I reached up and tousled his hair to shake out the flour from it. It flew like a small cloud around him. “Oh, wow. So why are you putting yourself through calc and all of those Advanced Placement classes? Why not chill?” I exclaimed.
“It’s like what you said earlier. I don’t need to do this just to get somewhere. I’m just doing it because it’s fun. Plus, it’s not that hard.” He winked.
Of course. Unlike this girl, who really had to work at her grades, at everything, really, Damien had always been naturally brilliant.
“And you? You staying or going out of state?”
I had recently received my early admission letters to two ivies, including my father’s alma mater, Stanford, in addition to the University of Washington. I’d applied to that local public institution just in case my hard-earned 4.5 GPA and extracurricular activities hadn’t been enough to land me anywhere else.
But now, with Dame back in my life, leaving the area felt less and less compelling.
