by Lucy Knott
‘Are you married, Devon?’ my mum asks, not holding back the punches, the minute my dad takes a bite of his food. Why did my dad need to eat too? I look over at him and he casts me an apologetic look as he munches on a small tree of broccoli. I give him a side smile to tell him it’s OK. I wasn’t exactly expecting us to manage a whole evening without my mum talking.
Devon neatly places his knife and fork on his clean plate. ‘That was delicious, thank you.’ He says politely. I look from D to my mum and by the small twitch in her right eye I can see she’s trying with all her might not to smile at the very gentlemanly way Devon is acting. It’s a far cry from our rushing to get away from the dinner table and talking with our mouths full when we were kids. But being children and not knowing any better back then was not a worthy excuse according to my mum.
‘I’m not married, no, Mrs Davis.’ Devon barely gets his words out before my mum starts her barrage of questions.
‘And why not? Is marriage not your cup of tea? At your age do you not think it’s wise to be thinking of settling down or is marriage too much of a responsibility?’ She keeps her voice in a neutral tone and doesn’t take her eyes off Devon, finishing her inquest with a soft and innocent smile. I feel Devon shift a little in his seat, but my eyes are on my mother while I try and figure out what to say to her. Normally, I’d simply shrug off her embarrassing and patronising questions. I know deep, deep, deep down that she means well and wants what’s best for everyone. She simply doesn’t understand that what’s best for someone might not be what she thinks is best, but it’s not coming from a place of ill intent.
The room is silent. My mouth is so dry I feel as if I’ve just eaten chalk and not a lovely steak dinner and no words are forming in my brain to defend Devon. My mum’s questions play over in my mind and I find that my intrigue has piqued.
*
‘Do you think we’ll always be best friends?’ Devon asks. He’s sitting in the corner of my bedroom on my Spider-Man bean bag; it’s more his Spider-Man bean bag really as that’s where he always sits.
I jump up and race to the bottom drawer of my dresser, awkwardly trying to pull out the layers of A4 paper that are held together with colourful paperclips and ribbon that make up our book, with my bandaged hands. Each page clearly depicts our superhero costumes: what they will look like, where we will keep them in our mansion ready for an emergency. I’ve also drawn a room that’s filled with paper and crayons and one of those big tables where you see adults drawing storyboards on for movies – kind of like those little booklets the teachers have us make at school. I want a big space for one of them so I can write books and comics when I’m not saving the world.
Devon’s pages show the garage we will need to keep our magic cars and he put in a movie room and stage so he can act and do shows, kind of like the ones we do at school. He’s good at them. I like to be at the back, but Devon isn’t scared of standing at the front and having lots of lines. It’s all here on these pages: our plan for when we grow up together, side by side.
‘Of course we will, dummy,’ I reply. ‘It’s going to be so fun living together; you can have all the hamsters you want,’ I say bouncing on my knees and nudging Devon to flip to a clean page.
‘Do you think it will be like our parents?’ Devon asks, turning the pages to get to an empty one.
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ I say nonchalantly, getting distracted by all the bright colours.
‘I’d like that,’ D replies, picking up a crayon with a smile on his face. I attempt to draw but it’s difficult with both my hands being in casts.
‘But with none of the gross kissing stuff they do,’ I add, sticking out my tongue to make a “yuck” sound as I try to add an ice-cream parlour to our dream home.
*
Devon straightens up in his chair, glances down at the tablecloth before clearing his throat. ‘I’d love to get married and settle down. Err, I guess I just haven’t found the right girl yet.’ Devon’s voice remains polite and he looks at my mum when answering. I find myself watching him as he speaks, his voice sounding different, more serious than I’m used to hearing, sweet even.
‘Don’t worry, lad, some things are just right under your nose…’ my dad starts but is interrupted by my mum who stands up with some speed and clears her throat.
‘Who’s ready for dessert? Dear, can you help me clear the plates?’ She gives my dad a pointed glare. My brows furrow at my dad’s choice of words. Did he know something about Devon’s love life that I didn’t? I’m not aware of them having been in touch over the years.
The chair next to me creaks as Devon leans back and rakes a hand through his dark hair. When I turn to look at him, he’s already looking at me with a contemplative expression on his face.
‘What about you, Scar?’ he asks, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. I cross one leg under the other and twist myself so I can see him better.
‘What about me?’ I ask, unfurrowing my brows, a little yawn escaping my lips. I forgot how tired being in the kitchen all afternoon can make me in addition to dinner with my mother. I cover my mouth with my puffy sleeve before resting my elbow on my chair’s back and leaning my head against my hand.
‘You ever thought about getting married?’ Devon copies my stance, twisting around so he’s fully facing me. For a moment I get lost in his chocolate button eyes and feel as though I would be happy staring into them forever. They send a warmth through my body and a tingle up my spine, giving me a sense of home and exciting newness all at once. My head lolls to the side, feeling heavy; my side parting making my long fringe fall across my eye. Devon reaches out ever so casually and tucks it behind my ear and it’s extremely difficult to deny the way my body reacts to his touch. That electricity floods my veins once again.
‘What? You mean like us getting married?’ The question was meant to come out teasing and playful, instead it comes out wistful and a little husky; the words lingering in the air when neither of us laugh it off.
‘Why so serious?’ My dad’s voice and prompt laughter cause Devon and I to snap back around in our seats. Devon being the better actor of the two of us immediately starts laughing and congratulating my dad for that classic while I force a chuckle and busy myself helping my mum dish out dessert.
The rest of the evening goes by smoothly, mostly because I spend it shovelling Eton mess in my mouth and Devon concentrates on keeping the conversation with my dad flowing while occasionally sending a quick compliment my mum’s way about the food. There’s no more talk of marriage and surprisingly no more interrogating questions or snide comments from my mum; it’s quite pleasant. I wonder if my dad had words with her in the kitchen.
We say our goodbyes and reach my front door in a comfortable silence. My eyes are growing steadily weary; my bed calling my name. I unlock the door and we both step inside, peeling off our layers and making all the typical shivering sounds a person makes when stepping out of the icy air and into central heating, before we make a beeline for the couch and flop down upon it. The tension in my shoulders relaxes and I breathe out the anxiety of the evening, feeling free to be myself in my own space. I lean forward and check on Ed and see his little tail wagging in his cave. He always sleeps with his tail sticking out. Knowing he’s there makes me relax. I lean back and rest my head against a cushion.
‘So, your mum really doesn’t like me?’ Devon notes, more than asks with his head tilted to the ceiling, his neck resting on the back of the couch. I chuckle, a delirious, tired sort of chuckle. ‘I thought out of the two of us, I was her favourite growing up?’ he adds, making me laugh harder. I elbow him in his ribs.
‘Hey! You wish. You were the bad influence. You may have been able to sweet-talk her occasionally back then but I had being her only child in my favour, kind of, she had to like me a little.’ I say through my giggles. ‘And you lost more points when you left. I think she thought it would be great for her and I to bond, maybe have some girl time together but I was miserable and angry about eve
rything for a long time. I could probably try a little harder; go to the salon, allow her to pamper me rather than cut my own hair, but the thing about walls is that once you’ve built them, they’re not very easy to knock down,’ I add, my giggles having subsided; my thoughts pouring out of me without fear. ‘Oh gosh, I’m turning into you. What are you doing to me?’ I say out loud, again without thinking, the giggles creeping up my throat once more.
Devon is looking at me, soft concentration on his face, eyes slightly narrowed, a smile tugging at those rosy lips.
‘What?’ I say, shoving him lazily.
‘I don’t think that wall is as sturdy as you think. And what’s wrong with turning into me? I am pretty fantastic you know,’ he replies, going from serious to playful by the end of his sentence, which I know full well is to stop me freaking out and dwelling on his “wall not being sturdy” statement. It works. I rest my head on his shoulder, tuck my feet up to the side of me and give in to my sleepy eyes, closing them tight while a smile dances on my lips.
‘I know,’ I whisper, referring to Devon and his being rather wonderful. Of course, I’d known that when I was a kid and saying it now despite all we’ve been though still feels right. I’ve only had a handful of men join me on my couch over the years and this is the first time I’m not picking at my nails nervously or rambling about the kind of fish flakes that Ed likes. Not that Devon is like those men because this evening hasn’t been a date, but the thought makes me smile so much that I succumb to the land of nod.
16
I wriggle my body, burying myself deeper into the warmth of my bed, arching my back into the curve of my duvet. My cheek tingles against my pillow, the scent of it inviting and delicious. I move my hand up underneath it wanting to wrap myself up in its cosiness when instead of smooth fabric connecting with my fingers, I feel a smooth palm and a sizzle beneath my skin when long fingers interlock with mine. I hear a low grumble from behind me.
My eyes dart open as my brain starts to compute the situation I am in. Am I using Devon’s forearm as a pillow? Are Devon and I holding hands? And holy moly, did I just wriggle my butt against Devon’s crotch region? My mind is screaming at me to jump off the couch and get a safe distance away from the superhero currently spooning me on my couch, but my body is deceiving every signal my brain is giving it and does not want to move.
I lie still as Devon begins to stir; one arm moves tighter around my waist and pulls me closer to him. His foot moves up my calf, his toes gently nudge my tights, my skin heats everywhere with his caressing movements. My heart starts beating to the rhythm of John Williams’ ‘Love Theme’ from Superman. Oh gosh, really? I can’t breathe. My hips involuntarily twist into him, making his hand drift along my stomach. I need to wake him. I carefully manoeuvre myself, prying my fingers out of Devon’s grip, so I am on my back, then turn my head to gaze up at him. He looks handsome when he sleeps; peaceful and content with a little morning five o’clock shadow defining his jawline.
Before I can open my mouth, his eyelashes flutter and I am greeted by his rich brown eyes that sparkle almost caramel under the sun’s morning glow through the window. I expect him to freak out and sit up in shock, but he doesn’t move. I follow his gaze as he looks over the length of my body, that is snug against his, his hand resting on the base of my torso and back up to my face. His eyes linger on my lips first and then meet mine once more. The arm under my head shifts slightly as I feel his fingers in my now-frizzy hair.
‘Morning,’ he says lazily, as a smile curves at his lips. The huskiness in his voice and the way he moves, keeping me close, deliberately now that he’s awake and staring right at me, catches me off guard. The way he looks at me stirs something deep in my belly. I don’t feel judged by his eyes – they always hold such warmth, but why isn’t he freaking out? And why am I still in his arms? I should have moved by now. He’s awake; getting up will not disturb him.
‘D?’ I whisper, but my thought process is cut off as his hand plays with my hair that meets my collarbone and my body tingles. He’s delicate in his movements causing my stupid body to shiver with pleasure.
‘Scar?’ Devon croaks. I make a noise, too distracted to speak. ‘Did you just groan?’ At what point did I close my eyes again? When I open them, Devon is wearing a teasing smirk and somewhere in the distance my alarm clock starts ringing. I roll off the couch, hit the wooden floor, bounce up onto my feet and throw a cushion at Devon’s head.
‘Put the kettle on please. I need to shower and get ready for work,’ I shout as I take the stairs two at a time.
*
We don’t talk about this morning’s wake-up call when I enter the kitchen. Devon simply hands me my coffee, made just the way I like it, then we both excuse ourselves – Devon remembering he has an early interview and me needing to get to the office.
I’m in my chair just as the clock strikes nine a.m. and it’s only then I realise Hope’s not sat behind her desk. She rushes in wafting papers in her hands five minutes later as I’m booting up my laptop and looking over the day’s mail.
‘Is it just me who gets the paper jammed every time I touch that machine?’ Hope asks as she settles behind her desk. I usually do the photocopying for her and I’m usually a little earlier than I was today. My cheeks flush and I feel bad for my tardiness – see this is why Hope needs me. She has more important things to do than dealing with photocopier malfunctions.
‘It is, yes, and I’m sorry. Did you need me to copy some things for you?’ I reply, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Hope stops shuffling her papers and actually stops working for a moment to look at me.
‘No, no I’ve got it. I’m a big girl; I can figure out the photocopier,’ she says taking her glasses off and chewing on the frame, elbows propped up on her desk. ‘How is the gingerbread house coming along and where were you last night? Jess said he saw Devon leaving your house this morning.’ She slides the last statement in in a more mumbling tone.
My face contorts into a huge grin at the mention of the gingerbread house; I feel it’s my best work yet and can’t wait to share it with her.
‘It’s looking amazing and so festive; I think everyone is going to love it,’ I answer, before clicking my mouse over my emails and pulling my eye contact away from Hope.
‘I’m sure it’s gorgeous. I can’t wait to see it. And the what did you and Devon get up to last night part of that question?’ she urges raising a brow.
‘Oh, we just had dinner at my parents’.’ It’s not like I have to hide the fact that I hung out with Devon to Hope. She knows he’s my ex best friend and she’s the one that has been inviting him to dinner dates and cookie competitions. I just don’t want her to start overanalysing things and getting excited about double dates or planning all our future cosplay outfits because I’m certainly not doing that. ‘We got in late and fell asleep on the couch. You know how exhausting it is having dinner with my mum,’ I add nonchalantly.
After the bedroom debacle and Hope’s wiggling eyebrows after too much wine on Monday night and my disappearing act with Devon on Wednesday, I don’t want her to get the wrong idea and think that Devon and I could be anything more than we are. I don’t want her bubble to burst when he leaves on Sunday. A part of me wants to let her in on my wayward thoughts but I’m scared that talking about my feelings will only make them more real. I swallow down the lump in my throat and focus on checking over some article submissions for January.
‘You didn’t text me back. I got no goodnight text,’ she says, still stood up and looking my way, a small smile tugging at her cheeks and her eyebrows halfway up her forehead, like I’m about to divulge some kind of magical night with Devon to her. I squint my eyes not even wanting my brain to go down that lane and start giving me visuals of what that would be like, especially not after this morning; I can already feel my cheeks redden.
‘Hope, you know I never look at my phone,’ I say matter-of-fact, forcing my words to come out firm and not lost in a sexy day
dream.
‘So, I take it you didn’t see the latest article on your roomie?’ she asks, shuffling papers on her desk.
Why is she not working? It’s so unlike Hope to be this unprofessional.
‘Since when do I read celeb gossip?’ I reply, though I have to admit, there’s a small part of me, like a tiny weeny part of me, that’s interested to know what the world thinks of Devon; how he comes across to the masses and if they love him as much as I do. Did I just say love again? You know what I mean.
‘It seems our good friend Ruby managed to stir up a heap of interest in Devon’s love life – her taking centre stage of course, over the whole childhood sweetheart thing.’ Hope is looking at me expectantly; I wish she would sit down. I shuffle in my chair making it squeak and creak as a knot forms in my stomach.
‘Hope,’ I start with a sigh. ‘D is a grown-up – we are all grown-ups here. He can protect himself now and if he can’t see someone like Ruby from a mile away then that’s on him.’ I lean back having clicked send on an email to Clark about the winner of this week’s cookie competition and about collecting their information for January. Oh, and not that Clark – that would be pretty neat though wouldn’t it? Both work at a newspaper, both wear glasses, only one is hiding a secret superhero identity but it’s not the one who works with me, unfortunately.
‘So, you’re good if the whole world thinks that Ruby is his girlfriend?’ Hope presses.
Cue more chair creaking from behind my desk. ‘If that’s what Devon wants the world to think, then of course I am. As his former best friend, I just want him to be happy. He and his people know what sells movies, I don’t.’ I nod. It’s the one name I haven’t been able to bring up when spending time with Devon. We always end up having so much fun that I just don’t want to talk about her. In my mind I’d settled on Hope’s assumption that Ruby is styling Devon for the documentary and then I had pushed her to the back of my mind.
