Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  I’m just falling back asleep when there’s a knock on my door.

  “Grace?” Mom says. “Are you decent?”

  “What? Yeah.” I’m wearing a pair of baggy pajama shorts and a tank top that my grandma bought me when she went to Wisconsin that says Somebody in Racine Loves Me. Because I’m sexy like that. It occurs to me that I desperately need a shower.

  I hear some mumbling outside the door and then it opens. I sit up on my elbows, my hair a rat’s nest, my eyes bleary.

  It’s you.

  “Now, I’m only shutting the door because I don’t want Sam coming in here and getting sick,” my mom says.

  I stare at her. I don’t know how you sweet-talked your way into this house, let alone my room.

  “Hey, beautiful,” you murmur after the door shuts behind you.

  The surprise of seeing you in my bedroom almost trumps the fact that I look like death. Wait, did you just call me beautiful? I search blindly for a rubber band. I realize I’m not wearing a bra. I pray I don’t smell like I’ve been vomiting for the past fifteen hours.

  “Gavin, what are you—”

  “Doing here? Like I wasn’t going to make sure you’re okay. What do you take me for?”

  You set your backpack, a grocery bag, and your guitar down before kicking off your shoes and crawling onto the bed. You sit cross-legged in front of me, your hands resting lightly on my knees.

  “Um, I might be contagious—”

  You shrug. “Misery loves company.”

  A sharp pain shoots through my stomach and I lean back onto the pillows. “It kind of hurts to sit up,” I say.

  You lie down next to me, your head propped up on your elbow. I lie in the fetal position and we stare at each other for a moment. You’re not wearing your fedora and your hair falls into your eyes. I want to brush it back, but I don’t.

  “Everyone missed you,” you say.

  “How was rehearsal?”

  “Madness. Utter chaos. This production can’t survive without you.”

  “I’m glad I’m indispensable.” I smile. “How did you convince my mom to let you in here?”

  “I told her I needed her help in making a grand romantic gesture,” you say. For me. A grand romantic gesture for me.

  “I also threatened to start serenading her.”

  I laugh. “I can’t believe you charmed my mother. That’s seriously hard to do.”

  You know women, Gavin. I’ll give you that. You know just what we need to hear, don’t you?

  “She seemed nice, but…” You frown, searching for the right words. “Formidable.”

  I snort. “Then you caught her on a good day.”

  I’ve told you a little about my family situation, but not all the gory details. I’ve been trying to figure out how to introduce you to my mom without making a thing about it. I’m sort of glad it happened this way.

  “I like your hair,” you tease, fingering my tangled locks.

  “Not all of us can wake up in the morning looking like James Dean,” I say.

  You laugh quietly. “Do you still feel like shit?”

  “I think I’m in the post-feeling-like-shit stage, but before the feeling-better stage.”

  “I can help with that.”

  You sit up and rummage through the grocery sack. You hold up a bottle of ginger ale and a plastic container with what looks like soup inside.

  “Chicken soup?”

  “I asked my mom to make it for you,” you say. “It’s a total miracle cure.”

  My eyes widen. “You had your mom make chicken soup for me?”

  You set the container on my desk. “Yep. She had today off work. I swear you’ll feel better after eating it.”

  “Wow. That’s … you’re amazing.”

  “Why, thank you.” Your lip turns up. “I may have promised to bring you to dinner when you’re not contagious.”

  My stomach flips. Holy fucking shit, you want me to meet your parents.

  “I promise they don’t bite.” You hold up a spoon. “You hungry?”

  “I better wait,” I say. “Unless you enjoy being vomited on.”

  The corner of your mouth turns up. “I draw the line at being vomited on.” You look around. “So this is your room.”

  I try to see it through your eyes. A poster with a shot of New York City from above, a Rent poster I got on eBay, a map of Paris. A bookshelf stuffed with Nancy Drew mysteries and old copies of Vogue. Knickknacks line the windowsill—seashells from Malibu, Happy Meal toys that Sam gifts me with.

  “I like it,” you say. Your eyes land on the collage of pictures next to my bed. You move closer. After a minute, you see the one of you and my face goes pink.

  “That was a good day,” you say.

  We had finished tech rehearsals for The Importance of Being Earnest and we all ordered pizza and ate it in the quad before playing flag football—without a football or any flags.

  You point to a picture of Beth and me jumping from a high dive together. “Who’s that?”

  “My sister—Beth. She’s two years older than me. She’s at UCLA now.”

  “My dream school,” you say.

  “Yeah?”

  “I auditioned for them in the fall. Should be finding out sometime soon.”

  I need this reminder. Whatever’s going on between us now, it can’t last. You’ll be moving to LA when I’m starting my senior year. But I don’t want to think about that.

  “You’ll get in.”

  You shrug. “Maybe.” You reach for the ginger ale. “Think you can keep this down?”

  I nod and take it, grateful. “All my mom gave me was water.”

  “What’s the deal with her? I felt like I needed a hazmat suit to get in here.”

  I sigh. “That’s just … Mom. She’s got a thing about germs.” I reach out a hand and squeeze your arm. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  You smile. “Best part of my day.”

  I bite my lip, casting about for something to look at, anything but your eyes.

  “What’s in that bag?” I say, pointing to the tote.

  “Ah, yes.”

  You grab it, then crawl back onto the bed, settling in next to me.

  You pull a stack of picture books out of the bag. “When I was a kid and got really sick, my mom would hang out in my room and read books to me. They were a good distraction.”

  As opposed to my mom, who, since I can remember, always stays a good ten feet away from me when I’m sick.

  “Are you going to read me stories?” Because oh my god that is the cutest—

  You nod. “Which one do you want first?”

  My eyes catch on yours and you smile. Then you reach out and slide the back of your fingers across my cheek. For a second I can’t breathe.

  You hold up Goodnight, Moon. “This one was my favorite.”

  “Then I want that one,” I say.

  You rest your back against my pillows, then reach out so that I’m lying in the crook of your arm, my hand against your chest.

  “Comfy?” you ask.

  I nod. “Perfect.”

  I can feel your heart beating under my hand. You cough slightly, then begin, your breath gently stirring my hair.

  “In the great green room there was a telephone…”

  I lose count of how many stories you read me. You do all the voices. If there’s a song you sing it. You hold me close to you so that, by the end, my head is against your chest. The smell of you is crack to me—that spicy cologne and whatever else makes you you. If I hadn’t been throwing up my guts all day, I might have had the courage to kiss you. But probably not.

  “Feeling any better?” you murmur after you close The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

  I nod and look up at you. “I hope I don’t get you sick.”

  You smile, running your hand through my hair. “It’d be worth it.”

  I want to stay in this moment, suspended forever. I don’t know yet that this tenderness between us will be impo
ssible by the end. I have no idea how much you will hurt me.

  You stay for another hour, playing your guitar as I eat. Your mom’s chicken soup is delicious.

  At nine my mom knocks on the door.

  “Grace? You need to rest now if you’re going to get to school tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” I call.

  You stand up. “That’s my cue.”

  You insist on getting me comfortably settled, then squeeze my hand.

  “How are you sick and pretty at the same time?” you say.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  You shake your head. “Good night, Miss Carter.”

  “Good night, Mr. Davis.”

  You shut the door behind you and I lie on my side, turning off the lamp. My pillow smells like you and it’s still warm from where you’d been leaning against it. I hug it to me.

  I’m asleep in seconds.

  EIGHT

  After that night, I allow myself to think that you might actually be falling for me.

  I can’t believe it, but I really think you are. There are the looks, those searing glances that own me. The hugs you don’t give anyone else. The way you’ve started appearing at my locker between classes. The texts that say things like Thanks for getting me through the day and, as a joke when you were walking behind me, Nice ass, Miss Carter. Little gifts: Pepsi Freezes during rehearsal, a light for my clipboard so I can see backstage, bags of food when I have my long shifts at the Pot.

  And a song.

  You grab my hand and pull me into an empty classroom before rehearsal. You’re carrying your acoustic in the other hand.

  “I wrote you a song,” you say, without preamble.

  I stare at you. Did I just hear Gavin Davis tell me he wrote a song for me?

  “It’s rough,” you say. “I couldn’t sleep last night and I…” You rub the back of your neck, your cheeks going the softest shade of pink.

  “Are you blushing?” I say, half laughing, half turning into a pile of mush.

  “Shut up.” You grin and play the first chords, a midtempo sound that reminds me a little of Ed Sheeran.

  “I never thought I—” You stop. Clear your throat. “God, you’re making me nervous.”

  I smile and slide behind you, so close I could kiss your neck if I wanted to, which I do—want to, that is.

  “Is this better?” I murmur, my lips close to your ear. Who is this secret vixen living inside me and where has she been all this time?

  You reach one hand back and I take it, let you pull me around so I’m facing you again.

  “I want to see your face,” you say with that perfect half smile. “That’s the best part.”

  You let go of my hand, look down, take a breath. Then:

  I never thought I’d find a girl like you

  Someone who makes me feel so damn brand-new

  She never turns her nose up at me

  She never tries to fucking change me

  She never leaves without saying good-bye

  You shrug as your fingers leave the strings. “That’s just the first verse. It still needs a lot of work.”

  I stare at you and something like panic flits across your face.

  “I said too much,” you mumble. “You hate it? I know that second line is shit.”

  I shake my head, find my voice. “I … I love it. It’s … Gav, I—”

  A goofy grin spreads across your face.

  “What?” I say.

  “I love when you call me Gav.”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d done it.

  This is us now. For the past few weeks we’ve been skating around whatever this is, running headlong into a heart-shaped mystery. People are starting to notice. There are lots of raised eyebrows, especially from Nat and Lys.

  “So. You and Gavin—spill,” Nat says as she slides into a perfect split.

  We’re working on a new combo for dance P.E. and I keep screwing it up because I can’t help replaying the last hug you gave me. It was so long that I’m pretty sure it qualifies as holding.

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” I answer, honest. “I think he likes me, but—”

  “You think? That boy is head over heels for you, anyone can see that,” she says.

  “Yeah?” I ask, grinning.

  “Um. Yeah.” She shakes her head. “Who would have thought—you and Gavin Davis.”

  It’s like winning the boy lottery.

  I smile. “Who would have thought.”

  You say I’m the only person who understands you. The only person who doesn’t judge you. We can talk to each other about anything. And yet we’re not together. We haven’t kissed except for on the cheek or the few gallant times you’ve kissed my hand. It’s almost like we know that if we kiss kiss, that will be it. We won’t be able to fool our parents, our friends, ourselves any longer. Right now, we can say we’re taking it slow, that of course we’re considering how maybe it isn’t good for you to be in a relationship right now. You did promise your parents you wouldn’t date anyone until after you graduate. Which, by the way, will happen in a few months—and that brings us to the other reason we shouldn’t be we: Guys in college don’t usually have girlfriends in high school.

  But then this happens:

  “I want to kiss you so bad,” you say. You’re leaning against the lockers, holding my books while I work on the combination. I go still. “But we shouldn’t. I mean, we’re like … a frouple.”

  I’ve lost track of the numbers and have to start over.

  “A frouple?”

  Thirty-nine, ten, twenty-two …

  “Yeah. You know. Friends that are almost a couple. A frouple. And frouples don’t kiss because then they’d be … couples.”

  “You’re so weird.”

  “You’re so perfect.”

  So each week we get closer to … something. I can feel it, like a tide dragging me out to sea.

  On opening night, I pull you into a dark corner backstage. It’s the middle of April and rainy, the thunder outside loud and insistent. My Gram always says that’s God bowling. Everyone’s worried people won’t come because of the weather and I’ve spent half the afternoon reassuring nervous actors. But now I need some reassurance.

  “What’s the real reason?” I say, apropos of nothing.

  You furrow your brow. “The real reason?”

  “That we aren’t together.”

  You smooth your Billy Flynn tie and look behind you, toward the stage. No one’s around. You set your palms against the wall behind me, boxing me in. Classic sexy move.

  “Grace, believe me when I say that there is nothing I want more than you.”

  We’re so close your lips are almost touching mine.

  “So why?”

  “I’m trying to save you from me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  You look away. “If you saw … if you saw the real me, you might not want—”

  I rest my fingers against your lips. “Shut up,” I whisper.

  There’s a small cough behind us, but instead of jumping away from me, you press your lips against my fingers before turning around.

  “What’s up, Nat?” you say.

  She looks past you, toward me, apologetic.

  “Sorry to … uh … interrupt. Miss B is looking for you—they can’t find Roxie’s last costume.”

  I nod and move away from you. “Okay.”

  It’s too dark for her to see my blush, to see the pride in my eyes. Believe me when I say that there is nothing I want more than you.

  She and Lys ambush me after the show, yanking me into the prop room. We’re surrounded by shelves of theater junk—revolvers, candlesticks, knives, a rubber chicken. Like we’re about to start an epic game of Clue. I open my mouth, but Nat puts a hand up like, Stop right there.

  “Okay, were you guys, like, making out back there?” Nat asks.

  “No! We haven’t kissed, I swear. I would tell you guys.”

&
nbsp; “What the hell is he waiting for?” Lys asks. She sets down her massive purse and pulls a feather boa out of it, throwing it dramatically around her neck.

  “It’s complicated,” I say. “Because of … you know. His parents want him to stay single until after graduation.”

  Nat frowns. “Is he still … suicidal?”

  “God, no. He’s doing great,” I say. At least, I hope so. You say being with me is like taking a happy pill.

  Nat and Lys exchange a look.

  “What?” I say.

  “You know we are very pro you-and-Gavin, but we’ve been talking and we thought you should maybe think about how, like … he’s, like, really … intense,” Nat says. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

  “We don’t want to see you get hurt,” Lys adds. “Summer’s still fucked-up about it all.”

  “I live for intense,” I say. “I want someone who will write me songs and who’s arty—like bohemian—and who gets me, you know? Someone in our world.”

  Lys chews on her lip. “What if he does it to you, too?”

  “Tries to kill himself?” I ask, my stomach turning.

  She nods.

  “He won’t,” I say.

  We tell each other so much, but you still haven’t gotten into that day. I’m afraid to ask. I don’t know if it’s Pandora’s Box—maybe we should just leave well enough alone. You’re okay now. You’ve moved on, gotten over … whatever made you do that. Right?

  Nat looks like she’s going to say more but then Kyle throws open the door wearing a Jason mask he found in one of the dressing rooms and we all screech.

  He pulls it off, grinning. “Evening, ladies.”

  “You bastard,” I hear you say somewhere outside the prop room, but you’re laughing along with the guys.

  Miss B herds us all into the parking lot and I jump into Nat’s car since you’re riding with Peter and Kyle. I give you a wave, but you’re looking down at your phone and don’t see. A second later my phone pings.

  The real reason is that I don’t deserve you.

  My heart does that zapped thing it does whenever you say or do something so perfectly perfect. I respond right away.

  That’s a stupid reason and you know it.

  I’m going to college next year.