He + She

by Michelle Warren

  “Yellow houses are happy houses?” he repeats and turns his attention to me. “Are you sure? Because the psychology of color suggests that a yellow house would make you feel anxious.”

  “The psychology of color?” I raise my brows and smile. “That sounds official, and very much like an architect.”

  “Seriously, psychology suggests that colors can make people feel a certain way, like blue or cool colors can make you feel calm. Red rooms can make you feel hungry. That’s why interior designers paint red on dining room walls. And yellow walls can make you crazy!” He laughs.

  “Yellow equals crazy? If that’s true, it certainly explains a lot in my life.”

  “I’m joking,” he says, backtracking. “Reaction to color is subjective. What’s perfect for one person is not for another.”

  “So, which one of these would you pick?”

  He walks to each, seeming to consider not only the colors but also all the features. “I pick this one.” He stops in front of a mostly lavender house with bright white gingerbread trim.

  “Why this one? It’s kinda girly for a guy.”

  “Well, I could tell you it’s because purple is the color of introspection, knowledge, and power, which it is, but the real reason I pick this one is because of that.” He points to the side yard with an elevated porch. “This one has a Jacuzzi!”

  I laugh and push his arm. “I don’t think Jacuzzi qualifies as a color.”

  “But I’m thinking that being in that Jacuzzi after walking up and down all these hills would be more important than house color. I have a feeling I’m going to be hurting later.”

  “Just think of it this way, this city is a natural StairMaster. That’s why all the people who live here have perfect asses.” I point across the street to a man.

  “That’s what you consider a perfect ass?” This time Hew pushes me and laughs.

  The man hobbling away from us and up the hill is at least ninety, and carrying a grocery bag in each hand. His khaki pants drape over the area where there should be a butt, but his body moves straight from slim hips to skinny thighs.

  “He has no ass,” Hew says with a laugh.

  “A concave ass.”

  “Flat-ass syndrome,” he counters.

  “The anti-ass,” I add, and we laugh harder with each newly made-up term.

  “Ass-licking.”

  “Ass-licking?” I lose it and double over cackling because we’re so caught up in ourselves, in our compounding laughter, that everything is much funnier than it should be. To everyone around us, I know we look ridiculous.

  “No! No! Lacking, not licking! Ass-laaaacking!” he tries to explain through his happy tears. “If that is the perfect ass, I’m really in trouble.” He grabs his own firm butt. “You’ll have to let me know if it’s any flatter by the time we’re done today.”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  With those words, we stop and stare at each other with out-of-breath smiles. My cheeks actually hurt from our exchange, and I remember the last time I felt like this. It was with Bren.

  Bren and I were making a midnight run to the supermarket; I wanted ice cream and he wanted oranges. He liked his sweets in the healthy form, just one of the many things I used to love about him. He would never eat my ice cream, and I would never eat his fruit. We stood at the bin of oranges, and each time Bren filled the clear plastic bag with oranges, the bottom of the bag would split apart and all the globes would tumble to the floor, rolling everywhere. We tried using new bags, three different times, but each time the fruit fell out of the bottom of the bag for no reason. Our laughing increased with each new attempt. We crawled around the cold terrazzo floor, collecting the oranges, and looked for the hidden cameras we were certain were there, but there were none. The bags were really just faulty.

  It was real and uncontrollable laughter, the stupid kind for no good reason, just like this moment between Hew and me. That’s when I realize he’s snapping more photos of me as I’m lost in this private thought, the part of my relationship with Bren that I want to remember. It’s the most recent part, or lack thereof, that I want to forget.

  “So, are we close to your spot?” I ask to break him away from his viewfinder. I have the sinking feeling that when he’s behind it, looking at me, it reveals everything about my past—my secrets, my real home, my house color, and even my real name. Everything I can’t afford for him to know.

  “Almost there.”

  Chapter 13

  He

  Shea stops in her tracks when we reach the intersection of Baker and Bay Street. Her eyes grow wide and she claps her palms over her mouth and squeals with excitement.

  “What is this place? It’s like a dream!” She takes off like an uncontrollable child and rushes across the road to the park.

  I knew I’d find the Palace of Fine Arts eventually, but I’m half-glad that Shea ripped up my map, making the walk take longer so we could spend more time together, at least until she decides to take off again. I sigh at the thought of her walking away for another time and join her side, determined to make her want to hang out with me as much as I do with her.

  “It’s called the Palace of Fine Arts, and this is my favorite place in the city.”

  The grass is perfectly trimmed, sparkling in the afternoon light with a velvety sheen. With the sunny sky, the colors of the garden are blindingly beautiful. At our feet, a black lake shimmers while graceful white swans glide across the surface. But that’s not the most beautiful part, it’s the actual “palace” that is the gem of this show. The massive Roman-inspired dome and matching high-reaching colonnades are stunning, and their terracotta color complements the cloudless blue backdrop.

  If Shea didn’t realize before that I’m an architect, she certainly does now. This building is everything I studied in college, every history of art and architecture class that I loved sitting through and dreamed about at night. Even though it’s not truly as old or detailed as any ruin in Europe, it’s equally as impressive and romantic. It’s the idea of it, and I know if I ever said any of that out loud to anyone but Shea, I would be laughed at for the unmanliness of it all.

  “Oh my gosh, this might be my new favorite place, too. I never even knew this was here!” She walks to an ornate bench and sits. I follow and drop down beside her, and look out at the scenery.

  “I always imagined the dome as a gazebo for King Kong. It’s the perfect size, it’s so large,” I add. “And over there”—I stand and point to an open grassy spot, getting excited about this idea I’ve had for ages—“I wanted to design an outdoor sculpture of huge white 3-D glasses that sit looking toward the dome. I mean huge—with one red lens and one blue lens.” I raise my arms above my head. “Maybe twenty feet wide and seven feet high.”

  “Why?” She scoots to the end of the bench and leans forward, her eyes wide with interest.

  “Because when you look into the glasses toward the palace dome, you would see the Space Invaders coming down from the sky, a black and white old movie-style Godzilla getting ready to crush the dome with a slap of his giant tail, and over there, King Kong fighting him off to save his giant gazebo!”

  Shea leaps from the bench and claps. “I love the idea! Impressively creative, and it would be the coolest sculpture ever! I’d visit here every day just to look through the lenses and see all that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone about it. Don’t go stealing the idea,” I warn her. “You could be a famous sculptor, for all I know, related to Da Vinci or something.”

  “I’ll try not to, but it’ll be hard. Uncle Da Vinci is my hero.” Shea looks away and says, “I love this place. It reminds me of a garden for a Roman queen or something. It’s honestly the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.” She reaches out and grabs my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “Thank you for bringing me here. It’s magnificent.” She bites her lip the way chicks do when they’re
flirting. Or it could be me hoping that she’s flirting, making me want to kiss those plump lips.

  With that look on her face, I can’t concentrate on the architecture or my grand sculpture idea, because she’s more beautiful than anything here. Yes, she’s touched me before, but not like this. This is different, and I sense that the scales are tipping in my favor—I hope. The truth is, I want to be more than friends with this girl, no matter what’s happened to her in Maryland and who is waiting for her there. It’s not fair, but I’m too into her to turn back now. I’ll do whatever it takes to get her to agree to another day with me.

  We meander through the path in the park, a loop that circles the lake, then weave under the tall colonnades and into the massive dome. We’re unable to walk completely inside when we arrive, because it’s roped off today for a private wedding.

  The bride’s large white dress reminds me of the one Shea wore on the first day I saw her, and standing next to the bride is a groom in a tuxedo. Both are smiling, clutching each other’s hands for dear life as they repeat their vows before a minister and a small wedding party.

  Shea stiffens and her face contorts, like someone who’s seen a car accident take place right before her eyes. Her expression fills with horror and her lips begin trembling, and that’s when the tears begin. I put my arm around her back and pull her close, wishing I could take away whatever pain her fiancé caused her. But she jerks away and her entire body convulses. Pulling away turns into running away, and she’s pushed past several groups of tourists before my brain can even register to chase after her.

  Chapter 14

  She

  Hew stops following me when I run into an empty ladies’ room at the Palace of the Arts park. I stumble in, finding my way to the sink to hold myself upright, before I work myself into a panicked frenzy that will cause me to pass out. I’ve slipped into the silent darkness before; it could easily happen again.

  My head pounds, sweat runs down my back, and dots form in front of my eyes just as I unscrew my pill bottle. With shaking hands, I grab one white pill and place it eagerly on my tongue, chasing it with a gulp of freezing water from the faucet. Cold water dribbles over my cheeks and chin, dripping down onto my shirt as I slurp it like an animal, and I collapse to the wet tiled floor, weeping.

  It only takes a few minutes for the drug to kick in, and to save me from myself and my tragic endless tears.

  “Shea?”

  Hew peeks his head around the corner and his eyes widen when he sees me in my state of grief. I didn’t want him to find me this way. I don’t want to share this part of my life with him; I want to hide it away from the world. God only knows how tired I am of people knowing everything about me and all the horrible details. I just want to be alone to cry my eyes out in my own space, and get over things in my own time. And when my mind and soul are ready, carve out those little pieces of happiness, one chip at a time, like some large sculpture. Maybe even a Roman one.

  I look up to Hew. Eventually, with enough chips, shavings, and dust, my picture of happiness will appear. I have to keep believing that and hoping for it, because if I don’t, then what else is there to live for?

  He comes to my side and hugs me. I’ve received many hugs and words of comfort, but not from someone I don’t truly know. He hugs me and he has no idea why, and when he does, it’s different from the others. Maybe because there’s no judgment behind it, or no reason other than he’s a good guy and wants to make the hurt go away. He’s reassuring and so different from the isolation and loneliness that I’ve been feeling, that I want to melt into every curve of his body, forget my past, and live in this fake little world with him. One where someone thinks I’m perfect.

  “Let me help you from the floor,” he whispers, then locks his arms under my bent elbows and gently lifts me to stand. One of his large hands splays across my back, and the other cradles my head into his broad chest.

  My nose nestles within the small V opening of his button-down shirt, right at the clavicle. His skin is warm, intoxicating, the scent of brown sugar and leather. I inhale and my shoulders relax their tenseness, then I sigh a breath of release. I’m not sure if it’s the drug or Hew, but one of them or possibly both of them is my sanity.

  “Let’s go outside.” He leads me into the sunshine and to an empty patch of grass. “Let’s sit.”

  I move with him, still huddled in his embrace, and we slowly lower to the ground. Unlike everyone else, he never asks me why I cry, why I freaked out; he just lets me be, lets me work out this pain on my own. He rocks me while humming a soothing melody.

  We sit for at least an hour, and then he does what everyone else before him has done. He ruins everything.

  Chapter 15

  He

  “Please tell me what happened to you,” I plead. “I saw you on the plane from Baltimore, saw you in your shredded wedding dress. Please tell me so I can try to help you in some way. I feel useless not knowing.” Even though I don’t know this girl well, I feel an intense need to protect her.

  Shea stiffens under my embrace and pulls away so our eyes are level. At first I think she’s going to open up and finally share something true about her life, but her words aren’t the ones I want to hear.

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  She stands, collects her handbag, and takes off, striding as fast as she can across the park to the nearest street.

  “Shea! Come back!” I leap to chase after her again, maneuvering the camera from where it’s been resting on my back to my front, where I can hold it in my hand. I can’t stand the thought of not knowing if I’ll ever see her again, like I felt when she walked away from me yesterday. The moment she left, a heaviness settled in my chest, and I ached for more. I have to see her again. I grab her arm just as she’s about to step into the open back door of a taxi.

  “Don’t leave, please. I’m sorry I said the wrong thing. I just want to help.”

  “You can’t help. That’s the problem, no one can help!”

  She jerks away, and regretfully, I let her go again. Her expression conveys her feelings more than her words. This girl is broken. But who am I to think that I can fix her? I may be just as broken or worse, though, for some reason I would give anything in the world to try to make her better.

  The door slams, severing me from the best thing that’s happened to me in years, and my shoulders slump in defeat.

  “Fuck!” I scream so loudly that the people around me cringe. They’re looking at me in a way I don’t want to be looked at. I screwed up royally. I should have known; we made a promise on the first day not to be ourselves, to be the best version of ourselves. But when I saw her crying that way, so helpless, the way I’ve cried a million times before, I couldn’t help myself.

  The yellow cab speeds up the hill and I watch it for as long as I can, until it turns the corner, disappearing forever, just like Shea.

  Chapter 16

  She

  For some reason, despite my anger, I can’t help but turn to look at Hew through the back window as the taxi drives away. It’s the second time this week a yellow cab has been my getaway car from a guy. The difference is that this one doesn’t deserve my outbursts. Hew is better than anything I left behind at home. I already know it, despite knowing nothing about him. He treats me with respect; he opens doors for me, makes me laugh, and comforts me when I cry. He owes me nothing, yet gives me everything in return.

  Even from a few blocks away, I can see him throwing a fit, arms flailing and camera swaying around his neck. Somehow, when I try to get away from the drama, I seem to invite it back into my heart easily, again and again. Romance is so complex for me.

  I turn to ask the driver, “Can you please take me to Washington Street?”

  He nods in the mirror.

  I want to weep again but the drug has taken that part of me away, lifted me up on a cloud, distracting me from the pain in my heart and taken me to the edge. It’s surprising that I had enough spit and vinegar to jump up and
leave Hew, despite the muck the pill creates in my mind. It just shows the resolve I have for letting that part of my past go. Maybe I need to let everything go.

  The taxi driver stops and I pay him, jump out, and run into Hew’s hotel. Five floors later I’m breaking into his room to grab my small bag of things. I pick them up from a chair and shrug into the straps, then stop to look around, thinking I must say something, to give him some kind of explanation.

  I walk into the bathroom and grab a small bar of soap next to the sink. With it gripped in my hand, I write the word “sorry” in swirly letters on the mirror, as if the beauty of each stroke and curve will somehow make my actions explainable. It’s all I can do, the only truthful bit of myself I can offer because there’s hardly any truth left.

  I step away to leave, shut the room door behind me, and gallop down the stairs. I need to leave before he returns. If he’s determined, which I think he is, he’ll try to catch up with me here.

  When I make it back outside, I’m a little sad when Hew is nowhere to be found; that’s how messed up I am. I want a new friend, but I don’t want to tell them anything real about myself and I want them around, even when I push them away. My brain is a twisted wreckage. I consider my problem might be the loneliness I’ve felt for so long, looking for something that isn’t there anymore, and I just need to learn to depend on myself and not others. If I can learn to be alone then maybe, eventually, I’ll be okay again.

  I amble down the hill and toward the tall buildings of downtown. I haven’t really visited that area yet and I need to find a hotel for the night, someplace to sleep off this mental haze.