by Roan Parrish
“Thanks for letting me stay,” I said softly, our mouths an inch apart. His lips were parted, and he was half smiling at me. I wanted him so badly. Wanted to absorb him into my skin and get under his. To feel every inch of him welcome me. I slid my hand to his jaw, leaned in slowly, and kissed him.
His eyelids fluttered shut as his mouth opened to mine. There was the slick heat of his tongue and the rasp of his stubbled chin, and my brain short-circuited in like point five seconds. I could feel his pulse speed up against my fingertips and I pressed against it, the line of his jaw sharp beneath soft skin. Everything about Will was sharp wrapped in soft or vice versa.
He groaned and grabbed me by the biceps. “Saying you could stay was not the same as saying we were going to—”
“No, I know that. I know.” But I ran my knuckles over his cheekbone and kissed him again, and he didn’t stop me.
We fell into a rhythm, orbiting around each other like twin satellites. Whether we were cooking, eating, showering, watching TV, or just coexisting, I was always aware of Will. Always attuned.
I learned things about Will by living with him that I’d only seen hints of before. Will could be easygoing and fun, but hated to be scrutinized, so the second I drew too much attention to him, his defenses would snap into place. Sometimes it was sharpness, sometimes silence or irritation. Sometimes it was bravado or flirtation. Sometimes teasing. Whatever the patina, though, it was a cover for the Will that I was getting to know in the times when he wasn’t self-conscious. It was like his apartment was his haven, and when I paid too much overt attention, he acted like he did when people stared at him on the streets.
I learned that he was an amazing problem solver, able to look at a complex system and sort it out easily. He was extremely visual, so he solved those problems by writing things down or drawing them out, unraveling things and putting them in an order that was most logical (not to mention aesthetically pleasing) as he’d done with my finals schedule. Every endeavor, no matter how insignificant, was driven by that same logic of optimization. From the way he did laundry to the order of how he gathered the trash, it was a ballet of economy and grace, never a wasted gesture, always the shortest distance between two points.
I’d already known he was passionate about his work, but I hadn’t fully grasped how many of his coworkers depended on him to be their second set of eyes. How often they e-mailed him looking for help or a reality check. And, for all that he was brusque and honest with them, they respected him for it. One night he’d gotten an e-mail from his coworker Joanne with a cover design attached that she wanted notes on.
“Christ,” he’d muttered, squinting disgustedly at the screen, “that’s horrible.”
“Oh no, what are you going to tell her?” I asked. That was my worst nightmare, basically—being put in the position of having to lie to someone. No one ever believed me, so it always got awkward.
“Uh, I’m going to tell her it’s horrible.”
“What? Oh my god, you can’t say that; it’s so mean!”
Will snorted. “What are you, six? It’s not mean. This is our job, and Joanne’s asking for notes. What good would it do her to tell her it’s good when it’s not?” He said this like it was just that simple and dialed before I could respond.
“Joanne, hey.” He peered at the screen as he talked. “Yeah, I got it. It’s… well, it’s not working at all, huh?” I gaped at him, but his expression and his voice were totally neutral. “Well, yeah, that’s why you sent it to me instead of that ass-kisser, Adamson. So, let’s fix it.”
And he sat at the computer helping her redesign it for two hours. Before they hung up, he said, “I think it looks great, how about you?” And though I couldn’t hear Joanne’s response, Will smiled broadly—a sincere, tired, thoroughly satisfied smile—and simply said, “Good. Night,” before wandering away to shower. He looked more than just proud; he looked… intoxicated. High on being able to have solved a problem, fixed an error, turned something from bad to good.
I was getting pretty good at reading Will’s moods, too, even though I still couldn’t predict them. Sometimes he was grouchy and short for no reason that I could tell. Other times he was upbeat, chatting about his coworkers or telling stories about what he’d seen walking home that day. Sometimes he had bouts of being furious with the world, ranting about everything from health care reform to e-mail etiquette. Other times he was quiet, almost meditative, moving through his own apartment like a ghost.
Sometimes he watched me. I’d look up from doing yoga or pouring coffee, feeling his eyes on me. Half the time he’d keep staring until I flushed with self-consciousness or arousal, because when he looked at me like that, it felt like I belonged to him somehow. The rest of the time he’d look away, scowling, irritated at me for catching him, or irritated at himself for looking in the first place, I couldn’t tell. At other times it was like he forgot I was even there. He’d come around the corner and look genuinely startled to find me there.
And all the time, between us, the air grew thinner.
I could feel it when we stood close, him pouring coffee and me stirring eggs. The way the hairs on my arms stood up when his sleeve brushed mine. The way the back of my neck tingled when he stretched a casual arm behind me on the couch. Sometimes, it was as if he did everything he could to make sure we didn’t make contact. Other times, he’d throw a leg over my knee while we talked like it was nothing, or run his fingers through my hair absently. His touch was electrifying and capricious, and every time it came, the intensity of my reaction startled me.
When I initiated touch with him, I eased into it slowly. I’d pass him his coffee and continue the movement of my hand up to rest on the back of his neck. I’d flip his collar down and keep contact, slowly moving to rest my chin on his shoulder.
One night, when he was standing looking out the window, I tucked my chin into the crook of his neck and he sighed and relaxed into me. I could feel the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt, smell the scent of his skin and his hair. He reached a hand back and threaded it through my hair, keeping me there. We stood like that for what felt like ages, and just when I was about to blurt the question that felt like it was bursting to get out of me—that I knew he said he didn’t want a relationship, but why the hell weren’t we together when we so clearly worked?—I caught a glimpse of him in the window.
He looked vulnerable, his light hair a halo against the night sky. His eyes were closed and he was leaning into me like I was the only thing keeping him upright. When I opened my mouth to ask, I felt rather than saw his reaction. His shoulders tightened, and he shifted the balance of his weight away from me, as if preparing to support himself any second. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shatter the spun-sugar moment, especially as I noticed how tired Will looked.
He had been up late the night before talking on the phone and pacing. So I just nuzzled the side of his neck and snaked my arms around his waist, taking his weight onto myself again.
“Hey, who were you talking to last night?” I kept my voice quiet.
“Hmm? Oh, my nephew.” He sighed.
“You talk to him a lot, huh? Something up?”
“Uh, Claire. My sister. Sometimes she… leaves without telling Nathan and Sarah where she’s going.”
His weight against my shoulder grew heavier.
“She leaves?”
“Yeah.” He sighed, and I tightened my arms around him. “She’s bipolar—well, she hates that term, thinks it’s bullshit, but she was diagnosed just after high school.”
“Sorry, I’m not sure I know what that means, exactly.”
“Well, it varies a lot. But for Claire… she always had these periods of being really manic. Not sleeping, planning these grand projects or adventures. Her teachers used to send notes home that said she should be checked for ADHD, but my parents never paid attention. When we were younger, she’d do all her school projects for a month in one week, or clean the house from top to bottom. Once, she
borrowed a friend’s car and drove to Kansas without sleeping because she was obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. Then, when she got back, she slept for like forty-eight hours straight and wouldn’t come out of her room for the next week. Stuff like that.”
“Oh man. That does sound like it’d be really hard for kids.” I made sure to keep my voice calm and low so Will wouldn’t move out of my arms.
He nodded and sighed. He sounded so tired, and I wondered how many times this had happened before. I kind of couldn’t believe he’d never mentioned something so huge.
“Sometimes she’ll go to the store and buy hundreds of dollars of groceries and cook for days until she has so much food it won’t even fit in the freezer. And sometimes she takes off and doesn’t tell Nathan and Sarah where she’s going. So, they call me and I call around and try and track her down, but really she just comes back when she’s ready. She leaves them food and money. But, you know. They’re kids. They get scared.”
“Yeah, of course.” Nathan was ten and Sarah was only eight. “Can anyone help out? What about Nathan and Sarah’s dad?”
“Dads. No. There’s no one else.”
“Your parents, maybe—”
“No.” Will’s voice was poisonous and his whole body tensed against me. He’d never even mentioned his parents before. “They couldn’t be fucked to take care of their own kids; they certainly don’t give a shit about their grandkids. Besides, they’re useless. They’re worse than children.”
I started to ask about his parents, but Will pulled away and went to the kitchen, taking a beer out of the refrigerator. He held it up to me on offer, but I shook my head. I still didn’t like the taste.
“Then sometimes… she does other things. Like….” Will bit his lip and sat down on the couch, tucking his knees up. It made him look uncharacteristically young. Uncertain. I sat down, folding my forearms over his knees and resting my chin on them.
“Like she’ll drive to Detroit and meet up with these randoms she knows and get wasted in a hotel room for three days. Or she’ll bring some guy home and tell Nathan and Sarah that she’s in love and she wants them to meet her new boyfriend. I mean, these are guys she’s known for like a week. And of course they never stick around. Sometimes they get scared off by the fact that she has kids, or she comes on too strong. And if not that, then she gets bored of them after a few weeks. Or a few days. Not a single one of them has lasted more than two months. And it’s fine for her. But Nathan and Sarah….”
I wrapped my arms around his legs, curling around him. He sipped his beer, and his other hand came to rest on my hair.
“Well, I think they know the score by now. But when they were younger they used to call me and say, like, ‘we have a new friend,’ or, god, the worst, ‘we have a new dad.’ And when I’d tell Claire to quit introducing these guys to them… depending on her mood, sometimes she’d tell me how this guy was different. He was the one she’d spend her life with. Her soul mate. Or she’d be furious with me. Accuse me of thinking she was a loser who no one would want to stick around for. So there was no point.”
Will shook his head, staring out the window into the dark. I took the empty beer bottle from him and slid it onto the coffee table, then I pulled him up toward me. He came into my arms easily, even if he grumbled a bit as he did it.
“It’s good that they have you. Nathan and Sarah, I mean. I bet it makes a big difference.”
Will nodded. “I guess.”
It was a lot to take in all at once, and I felt like I should say something. Reassure him. But platitudes would irritate him and empty assurances enrage him, so I did the only thing I could in comfort.
I ran my fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp, and he melted against me like a giant cat, content, for the moment, to be petted.
7
Chapter 7
January
Layne had been beside herself with joy when I’d called and said I could work extra hours over break. This guy Travis—who I think might’ve been in some kind of country band?—had quit, so Mug Shots was suddenly short-staffed. I might’ve been able to make up for Travis, but Jill, who’d worked there for three years and was a milk frothing wizard, had the flu, and it was total pandemonium in the café.
It was the day before Christmas, so everyone was either attempting to relax with a comforting latte before having to face the stress of a family holiday, desperately caffeinating to finish work before the days off, or trying to show their out-of-town guests an authentic New York coffee shop experience and getting frustrated to find no empty tables and a line that snaked out the door. Then there were the people loading gift cards and buying Mug Shots mugs and whole beans as last-minute Christmas gifts, dithering over whether their secretaries deserved $25 worth of coffee or $30.
We were closing at six, but looking down the barrel of the final two hours of my shift made me slam back another shot of espresso that a customer hadn’t wanted.
“Hey, hot stuff,” a familiar voice said, and I turned to find Will grinning at me from the other side of the long line.
I waved and grinned back, immediately cheered. Will had the power to render the entire coffee shop happy and homey just with his presence. I passed the drink I’d just made to James so he could ring the customer up, and started in on the next of five empty cups to my left.
I was lost in the rhythm of pulling shots, pouring milk, and measuring syrup when an irate voice said, “Excuse me.” I didn’t think much of it, since part of the joy of being behind the espresso machine is that you’re in the heart of the action but you’re behind a wall, only communicating with customers through the boxes ticked on the side of their cups.
“Excuse me,” the voice came again. I looked up to find a well-dressed man with immaculately parted and gelled hair waving the coffee drink with “Frank” scrawled on it in my face. “This was supposed to be a flat white.” He pushed the coffee toward me across the counter.
“Uh, isn’t it?”
I was pretty sure that’s what I’d made, though I tended to forget one drink the second I passed it along and started on the next.
“No, it’s clearly a latte.”
“Oookay, do you want an extra shot in there?” Usually when people said this, they were just angling for more espresso in the drink even when it was made properly.
“No, I don’t want you to just dump an extra shot in. I want the drink I ordered and paid for.”
“Well, it’s just that the difference between a flat white and a latte—”
“I don’t need a lecture, thank you. Just my drink. It’s really not that difficult, you only have one job, and it’s to add milk to coffee in the proportions people order.”
I was pulling the cup toward me and getting ready to remake the drink when Will stepped up.
“Actually,” Will said, “he has many jobs every time a new customer comes up in line. Over and over. For hours. For very little money.” Will’s voice was the lazy drawl he used when he was taking advantage of every bit of force his looks and charisma could exact. He was dressed for work so he looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ ad. “You have one job, which is to pay someone else to make your coffee for you. So why don’t you do that? And then go away.”
The man gaped at Will, who never broke eye contact. There was silence in the café for a moment, except for the irritating swing of Christmas music and the steady hum of the milk steamer. Then from the depths of the line someone called, “Preach!” Someone else said, “You’re holding up the line,” and a third person coughed “douchebag.”
At first I’d thought that Will would let Christmas pass completely unacknowledged. It seemed possible that Christmas fit into the category of things I’d always thought everyone got swept along with but that Will didn’t acknowledge. Just in case, I’d been dropping subtle hints for the past week about how much I like Christmas: adding holiday movies to Will’s Netflix queue, humming Christmas carols while I was in child’s pose on the rug, commenting on the pretty de
corations in the shop windows whenever we walked past.
When I came out into the living room after rinsing the film of steamed milk off me from my morning shift at Mug Shots on Christmas Eve, it was to Christmas lights twinkling around the windows and The Ref queued up on the TV. On the kitchen counter stood a mini tree, also strung with lights—one of those rosemary trees you can get at the fancy grocery stores, the ones that smell like winter.
“You wanna order food?” Will asked casually from the couch, but he was twisting the waistband of his sweatpants in tight fingers, looking studiedly at the wall behind me.
I threw myself at him on the couch, hugging him and burying my face in his neck. He made a sound like he was annoyed, but his arms came around me, warm and sure, so I stayed put.
“So,” Will said once we were ensconced on the couch with Indian food, “you didn’t want to go to Michigan for Christmas?”
I shook my head, shoving some naan in my mouth to delay answering. I wasn’t sure how to explain it, exactly. Will never talked about his parents and in that avoidance I read that things were probably pretty bad. But I didn’t have a sob story. My parents hadn’t kicked me out or treated me terribly. They’d never said horrible things, never hit me. But the space between what I wanted a family to be and what mine was gaped like a wound that couldn’t heal. And nothing I put into it—not energy or time, patience or distance—could fill it.
“My mom wanted me to,” I said finally. “So did Janie.” Janie had texted me: Come for Xmas or itll be toooooo boooooring!!!
I’d spoken with everyone that afternoon after I got off work. My mom told me a long story involving one of their neighbors and a Christmas-decoration-related power outage. Janie expressed her annoyance that I hadn’t come home. Eric described some piece of hiking gear he’d gotten for our dad, and when I told him I’d PayPal him for my share, he seemed to have forgotten that we usually all gave our parents something together. My dad just told me to stay warm, the generic Michigan version of “see ya later” in the winter.
