He + She

by Michelle Warren

  “The aloneness vibe?” He looks to me in mock horror.

  A quick pop of a genuine laugh escapes my lips. It’s a nice change from all the days I’ve spent crying. “Sorry.”

  “I guess I must since I am, in fact, alone. I thought I’d enjoy the city for a few days after my interview, maybe drive through some of the neighborhoods, see where I might want to live if I get the job. But the truth is that I don’t know anyone here.”

  “Well, now you know me.”

  We reach the bottom of the first hill that leads to the heart of the Little Italy neighborhood, and Hew offers to push my bike.

  “So, what is it you really do for a living, Shea?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now. Your job?”

  “Well, according to you I’m a fortune-telling carny,” I proclaim.

  “Is knowing your job not allowed in the rules?”

  “There’s only one rule, no real names.” Keeping things at this level will allow me to have a nice time without getting close. All I need right now is a friend. Even though I’m wishing I didn’t choose someone quite so good-looking, because if I’m being honest with myself, a friend is all I can handle.

  “It’s a strange rule.”

  “We’re just hanging out and having fun, no attachments, no e-mails or texts after whatever this is is over.” I roll my hand in the air.

  “That’s two rules then, and that statement implies that we’ve started a ‘whatever this is.’” Hew flashes me a boyish grin.

  “We have. We’re friends.” I skip into the store marked Sabatino Brothers Deli, leaving him to lock up my bike.

  Chapter 7

  He

  Lunch is delightfully vague. Shea manages to charm me, despite the fact that she tells me practically nothing concrete about herself. Most of the stories she relays, I’m not sure are true.

  She tells me she’s painted on the Seine River in Paris like a real artist, rode on a Mardi Gras float in New Orleans, which she may or may not have done topless. But I’m going with topless; I enjoy the visual. She sang karaoke with my favorite football player in a dive bar in Baltimore, even though she admits she can’t sing, and only knows what football teams she likes based on the colors of their “outfits.” Her favorite movie is a toss-up between 9 to 5 with Dolly Parton and Xanadu with Olivia Newton-John, but she’s leaning toward Xanadu because she loves to roller skate. And she’s even taught art to underprivileged kids. Despite my pointed questioning on each topic, which she answers convincingly, but also with a wink, she swears it’s all true. Even if it’s not, it doesn’t matter, because I realize I’m having a great time. We manage to talk about everything useless and nothing specific.

  I, however, do tell her the truth, but also with a wink so it’s not clear if I’m telling the truth either. It seems we’re playing a game—to one-up each other with awesomeness. And when I ramble off the highlight reel of my life, the scenes actually make me appear like a semi-interesting person. Of course I leave out the most recent events that landed me in rehab and jail. But it could have been a lot worse without my great lawyer, time served, good behavior, and an unwavering sense of remorse.

  “In my sophomore year in college,” I say, “I traveled to Brazil to install solar panels on the rooftops of this little village in the Andes.”

  “Shut up!” Shea slaps the tabletop with excitement.

  “No, really.” I lean in and push my empty plate away. “I have to admit that I agreed to do it as a cheap way to see South America, but volunteering my time and having the opportunity to improve an entire community’s quality of life was incredibly rewarding.” I leave out the fact that I dropped out my senior year and didn’t get my architecture degree until this past summer.

  “So you’re the really nice-guy type.” She leans back and crosses her arms. “I don’t think I’m that good. I wish I was a better person and did stuff like that.”

  I want to say, “No, I’m not the good-guy type, I’m the type that doesn’t even deserve to be having lunch with a nice girl like you.” Instead, I push all those thoughts away. My guilt has been torturing me for long enough. I’m trying to start fresh here. I deserve a fresh start. Everyone does; even me. “You’ve taught art to kids. What’s not good about that?”

  As she shrugs uncomfortably and turns her face away from me, I ask myself if maybe that was a lie. In her skittering gaze, I find scars as deep as the ones on her face and leg. Why can’t she be her real self for an honest conversation, tell me her true name or anything else factual about herself? What the hell happened to her back in Maryland?

  Shea picks up a paper straw wrapper and winds it into curling spirals as she talks about a shopping trip she took through Chinatown yesterday. I find myself comparing her to my ex-girlfriend, Cara. They’re nothing alike. Shea is carefree, magnetic, and seems so hopeful despite whatever she’s left behind. Cara, well, she’s shallow and reckless, and part of the reason things ended up the way they did. Since she was my sister Beth’s best friend, Cara and Beth were immersed in the party world, and like a love-struck idiot who wanted to date Cara, I willingly followed the two of them, tagging along like a little brother.

  After a few hours, and in the middle of a conversation about the many uses of the candies Pop Rocks and Mentos in science experiments, which she seems to be an expert on, Shea abruptly stands. “I’m not sure about you, but I’ve got a raging case of flat ass from sitting so long.” She shakes her legs and stretches.

  “Why do you think I keep shifting around? My toes have fallen asleep at least ten times since we’ve been here.”

  “I guess that means we should walk.” She pulls me to my feet and her hair brushes my arms. Leaning on her, I can smell her flowery shampoo. Something in the scent activates my senses, makes my palms sweaty and turns me on.

  On wobbly legs, she drags me out of the market and then faces me. “It’s been fun. Thanks for keeping me company today.” She shrugs into the straps of her backpack and begins walking backward.

  “That’s it? You’re leaving?” I raise my hands in shock, trying to move with her, wanting more time.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.” She smiles brightly and keeps walking.

  “Can I get your number?”

  “Remember the rules,” she shouts, then spins and marches away.

  Like an idiot, I say nothing and watch her leave. Apparently she was serious about the “rules” but I never thought she was. I thought—shit. I don’t know what the hell I thought.

  Why the hell do I want to see her again? I shouldn’t. Obviously she has issues; she’s the train-wreck bride, and who knows what she’s left in Maryland. And no normal person would play this weird-ass no-name game.

  But in this moment, it’s definitely not my brain I’m thinking with as I watch her strut away. I look past all the irritating questions, the strange and grandiose stories, and I smile, because I’m imagining the word Wednesday bouncing back and forth on her undies as she sways her perfect little ass.

  God, she’s so fucking crazy cute.

  Chapter 8

  She

  I’m speed-walking away from possibly the cutest and nicest boy in San Francisco as fast as I can so he can’t see that I’m crying. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I gasp a sob. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, promised myself I wouldn’t shed another tear. But when I realized how much fun I was having, guilt poured over me, reopening all those raw wounds, leading me into the familiar darkness. I just had to get away.

  When I reach the top of Union Street, I’m completely out of breath and finally empty of tears—for now. Somewhere below, Hew is probably wondering what the heck just happened, and I don’t blame him. It’s not his fault he’s a charming guy, that I practically forced him to lunch, and that I’m completely and undeniably insane.

  Not fast enough, I twist out of the straps of my backpack and drop it on a park bench, paw through the contents, urgently searching for my salvation—the bottle of
evil. Just clutching it within my grasp causes a tremor to roll over my skin, and an uncomfortable layer of cold sweat to encase my body. I’m Pavlov’s dog, salivating at the sight of the color, shape, and feel of it within my curled fingers. With quivering hands, I wash down another white pill with a gulp from my water bottle.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing the pill will calm my nerves and set my mind free. If only I could escape from it and everything it represents. No matter where I am or how hard I try not to take my meds, my issues will always be in the back of my mind, controlling me, and waiting to creep to the forefront like a heinous monster.

  After I regain some sense of myself, my only consolation is that I’ve made it in time to watch the sunset. I seat myself in front of the base of the high-reaching Coit Tower that looks out over the city. Tonight the sun paints the sky in bright magentas and purples, and the sight makes me even sadder that I can’t stay here forever. Eventually, I know I’ll have to face my problems, but not yet. I’m not strong enough yet.

  My next clear thought. I forgot my bike. Ugh!

  I rest my head on my knees and sigh. After the sun gives way to twilight, I make my way back down Union Street and return to Little Italy. But when I return to the deli where Hew and I had lunch, my bike is gone. Either he took it or someone else has.

  For a second, I wonder how much the hotel will add to my credit card for not returning the bike, but I quickly shake off the thought. It doesn’t matter. I have so many problems much larger than this, and a stupid missing bike is the least of them. I wish it were the only one.

  When I finally make it back to my hotel, many people are leaving, dressed up and headed out to clubs or fancy dinners. Couples slip into limos and taxis, looking happy and in love. I wish I were doing the same, but instead I’m here in a city I always wanted to visit with Bren, and I’m by myself. Watching the energy of the city, where everyone has someone, even a friend, I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

  “Welcome back.” The doorman smiles and opens the door for me to I pass through. I make my way to the front desk.

  “How can I help you tonight?” the woman standing behind the counter asks.

  “I used one of the free bikes this morning, and while I was out, someone stole it.”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Can I have your room number?”

  “Room 616.” I lean on the high counter, dropping my chin into my palms as she types my info into the computer.

  “I see you checked out a beach cruiser this morning, but it appears you checked it back in earlier this evening.” She looks up from behind a strand of dyed red hair the color of vampire blood, and black Buddy Holly glasses. Everyone here is incredibly fashionable.

  “I did?” I stand up taller with a nervous laugh. “I think I would have remembered that.”

  The girl simply gestures to two bikes that are parked near the glass front door. “We only have two and they’re both here. Perhaps someone brought it back for you? The bikes are marked with the hotel info.”

  “Um, okay. I guess I have a guardian angel then.” Hew.

  “Can I do anything else for you this evening?”

  “No, thanks.” I step away.

  “Enjoy your evening.” She waves as I slip into the nearby elevator.

  The door shuts and the mirrored walls reflect my puzzled face. Why do I have to meet such a genuinely sweet and hot guy, when I’m clearly not ready for anything more? I groan and turn my head, lightly banging it against the wall. The elevator dings and the doors part, and I drag myself back into my room.

  I lock the door behind me, kick off my satin slippers, and toss my bag on the chair, then collapse on the bed spread-eagle. It’s only then that I turn my head to see the bright pink blinking light on the phone, signaling that I have a voice message.

  I watch it.

  On. Off. On. Off.

  With each illumination, my body tenses a little more. I don’t want to check it, but I must because that blinking light will haunt me and ruin an entire night of sleep. I’ve told no one that I’m here. Not even my family. I lean over and lift the receiver, then follow the instructions on the phone.

  Though I shouldn’t, I hope it’s Hew, now that he knows where I’m staying, but I should know better. He doesn’t even know my real name. Instead, after pressing a few buttons, to my horror, the voice I’m running away from begins to speak. My throat turns dry as I attempt to swallow.

  “Babe, I’m so worried about you. Why the hell are you in San Francisco? Can you please come home so we can work this out? I love you.”

  His voice activates my anxiety. It courses through my veins, pumping pure adrenaline, an instinctual mechanism gearing me up for a fight. Or flight.

  But I’ve already done that.

  I try to calm myself, remembering what is real. He’s such a controlling ass, he’s probably already tracking my credit card purchases, which is no doubt how he found me in the first place. It’s just one of the perks of his government job. He can track my every move like a damn bounty hunter. If I don’t return his calls, he’ll jump on a plane to come find me to drag me home. Thankfully he left the message just before I walked in the door. So it won’t be tonight. It would take over five hours for him to arrive from Maryland.

  Relaxing slightly, still under the control of the white pill, I try to examine this problem somewhat rationally. I have some time to rethink and recoup, but tomorrow will have to be my last day here.

  I lean over to snatch my bag, unzip it, and remove my pill bottle and cell phone. Tonight, though, I desperately don’t want to need it. My body requires the pink pill, logically I know that, but everything in me likes to forget why. As if it’s too painful to remember.

  I put the bottle on the desk, willing myself not to take a pill. I don’t want to, even though I know I should. Parts of my mind block the reason. But from this side of the wall where it’s hidden, I know, can sense, that it’s evil and uncontrollable. Recalling this little bit sets me on edge and I drag my hands over my face, digging my nails into my skull and skin. The mental tug-of-war to take or not take the damn pink pill is twisting me into nervous chaos.

  Finally I give in. I snatch up the bottle, my hands trembling as I pop the top. My unfocused mind and fingers can’t seem to find the correct pill, so I frantically dump them onto the desk. The pills spill everywhere; some tumble to the floor, but I don’t care because the pink one rolls free, landing at the edge of the desk, and I drop my head onto the surface, practically kissing the wood as I suck up the hard sphere like a vacuum, swallowing it without water. The fix is quicker.

  As the medication settles in, I close my eyes. It creates a mental haze, but one I can still function within. I turn on my cell for the first time in days. Thirty-eight missed calls and more than fifty texts, each pleading for me to call or come home. I immediately delete them, just like I want to delete him from my mind.

  Chapter 9

  He

  I’ve been sitting on the sparkly pea-green vinyl couch at Shea’s quirky hotel since five a.m., and have counted the number of oversized sixties-style flowers on the wallpaper over the concierge’s desk at least twenty times, each time arriving at a different number. Uncomfortable, I cross my arms over my chest and my eyelids sink, first heavy and then shut.

  I didn’t sleep last night, thinking about the job interview, my past, the crazy but insanely beautiful girl I met, and my unsure future. That’s when the guy behind the manager’s desk clears his throat loudly in an attempt to wake me. I ignore him because the staff has been harassing me for hours. I keep insisting I’m waiting for someone, but if Shea doesn’t show up soon, they’ll be ushering me out the front door.

  Someone shakes my shoulder and I startle, suddenly awake and ready to defend my presence again.

  “How long have you been here?” Shea surprises me, standing rigid with two little bags strapped over her chest, looking as if she’s checking out.

  “You’re leaving already?” Up
set, I struggle to stand and ignore her question.

  “Yeah, I was thinking that maybe one night in San Fran was enough.” She readjusts her bag, looking strangely uncomfortable, not as carefree as the girl I met yesterday, and I immediately realize why. It’s me. I’ve taken this too far and now she thinks I’m stalking her.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. Honestly, I had so much fun yesterday that I just thought we could hang out again, and this was the only way I knew how to find you.”

  “Right, right.” She looks around me, acting edgy, as if she’s waiting to meet someone.

  She told me she was alone yesterday, but I guess that doesn’t mean she’ll be alone today. I’m such a schmuck for assuming she might want to hang out, too. My excitement deflates. “Listen, it was nice meeting you. You probably have plans today so I’ll get going.” I shove my hands into my pockets and make a quick exit, wanting to end the awkward encounter.

  The doorman pulls open the glass doors and I dart outside and trudge up the hill, along Grant Avenue through the Chinatown Gate, making my way back to my hotel. I need a nap anyway. I’m all the way at the top of the hill when I hear it.

  “Hew! Wait!”

  Everything about that voice, its soft and honey sweetness, causes me to stop in my tracks and turn to meet it head-on. Shea recklessly runs across the road, avoiding cars like she’s in a damn Frogger game, and it’s a relief when she meets me safely on the sidewalk.

  “I wanted to thank you for returning my bike,” she says as she nears.

  “Sure.”

  “You know, we could hang out for today. I really don’t have anything else to do.”

  My eyes widen with shock. “Are you sure? ’Cause I don’t want to mess with the rules of the game.” I tone it down, trying to play it cool.