“Yeah, I know what it’s about,” he interrupted. “We read it Sophmore year.”
“Well, I didn’t read it.”
“No shit. No one read it.”
Yeah, doesn’t surprise me. I shut my eyes. Breathe, Ash. Just breathe. “Well, I thought I would.”
“Okay, what the fuck is going on?”
His knees hit my thighs as he knelt. Goddamn seat belt! “I already told you, nothing.”
“This isn’t nothing.”
I know, but can we please pretend it’s nothing?
He frowned. “Do you like Steph?”
My cheeks get hot. “That’s really not--”
He shut his eyes. “Shit, I wish you’d told me. I didn’t sleep with them, if that makes you feel better. They were more into each other.”
It did make me feel better, but not in the way he thought it did. “I don’t like Stephanie,” I whispered. “Please, get out of the car. I don’t like being so close to you.”
His eyes widened, concerned. “What is it?”
“I’m not mad at you. I--” How could I say this? Why did I even want to say this? The fact was I didn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself, either. “I freaked you out this morning, didn’t I?”
Maybe it was just the lighting, but I swear his cheeks darkened. “I was just surprised.”
“No. It was more than that. I scared you. I made you uncomfortable.”
He started breathing faster. “You hit your head, Ash. You’re not thinking straight.”
“That’s not it.” I felt my eyes get glassy. “Jake, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have even thought it.”
He inhaled sharply, leaning forward until our foreheads touched.
I brought my hand to the center of his chest, but didn’t push him away. Instead, I gathered his shirt in my fist. “I don’t want to ruin things between us.”
He lowered his head. His lips brushed my scalp. It isn’t a kiss--it can’t be a kiss.
“It’s too late for that, don’t you think?” he whispered near my temple.
Before I could think better of it, I looked up.
My heart started up again like I was about to hit the tree and crash through the windshield and get myself killed. Maybe it was because of that, or the sudden rush of adrenaline, but I swear I’d never seen him look at me so intently before.
His long, strong fingers curved over my skull. His eyes lost focus as they centered on my lips.
My mouth went dry. “What are you doing?”
He smiled. “What you tried to do to me.”
“Not here,” I whispered. “Everyone will see.”
His grip on me tightened. “I don’t care.”
And he kissed me.
We’d had the kind of love you don’t get a second time. The kind of friendship you don’t get a first time. It grew so naturally that both of us almost didn’t see it.
But it was fragile, too, and I broke it.
It doesn’t matter how many times I run my tongue over my lips, they’re still coated in dust and chocolate. I twist the cap of my water bottle off and fill my mouth with the taste of plastic while Jake starts the truck.
Pop country twang fills the space between us. Muttering a curse, Jake turns the radio off.
I swallow, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and turn it back on.
Jake glares at me. “I thought you didn’t like country music.”
“I don’t mind Tim McGraw that much, actually.”
He turns his attention back to the road, gritting his jaw. “Yes you do.”
“Not anymore. He grew on me.” I began listening to this shit when I got homesick. Thankfully, Jake doesn’t ask why so I don’t have to choose between lying or embarrassing myself.
I watch my car in the rearview mirror until Jake turns the truck around the blind corner. After five minutes, he starts absently humming along with the country songs, even carrying the tune during the static solos when the radio cuts. The landscape changes from clear cut forest to unseen homes tucked behind trees. The gravel road gives way to a paved one. Vineyards and Alpaca farms replace the woods. We’re getting close to town.
“Where do you want me to drop you off?” he asks.
I fidget in my seat, suddenly hot. “Maybe we can go to your place? I can call my brother. He’ll pick me up.”
He grits his jaw, but doesn’t push it. “Alright.”
I shut my eyes. “I’m sorry, I just--”
“I said it’s alright,” he interrupts.
It wasn’t alright, but what did that matter when I was still unwilling to change it?
Chapter Two
He’s staying at one of Margie’s double-wides down by the river. You can’t build on the water, of course. It’s a protected scenic area. Still, it’s nice and cool when we get out of the truck, and you can hear running water from just beyond the treeline.
“Thanks Jake,” I tell his broad back as he walks past.
He stops. “Like I said, it was nothing.” Then, he continues into his mauve home, ending the conversation.
I watch the white, closed door he disappeared behind. What the hell am I doing here? Why couldn’t I let him drive me home? I retrieve my cell from my jeans and run my finger over the black screen. The moment I turn it on I’m gone and then what?
I’d go back to my family and we’d celebrate the holiday together. They’d be happy and proud of me. And I’d be happy too, in a way, even though a part of me never forgets that they only accept me when they can pretend I’m someone else.
Being that other person isn’t so bad most of the time. I’d even tried dating a few girls back at college, and they were nice. And there was always my art. No one ever questioned my dedication. In fact, it was to be expected. Artists forgot to eat and said offbeat things and slept in their studios. They developed obsessive fixations on objects. It wasn’t strange for a boy from the country, to spend a semester exploring the form of the cowboy hat, or to listen to a country song he claimed to hate over and over.
I was the only one who knew the truth. I wasn’t making art. I hadn’t made art since I left. I was acting like an infatuated teenage girl doodling the name of the boy she had a crush on in her notebook, only no one noticed because I had the technical skill to hide it.
My hand shakes as I turn on the phone and raise it to my ear. It rings four times before my brother picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey Adam.”
“Ash, where the hell are you? Mom’s already started on the potatos.”
Shit. “Tell her…” What do I want to say? “that...uh...I’m gonna be late.”
There’s a significant pause. “How late?”
I glance at the white door. “I don’t know yet.”
He doesn’t respond right away. I hear a door close, then another. He’s moving somewhere where we can talk privately.
“What are you doing, Ash?” he whispers.
“I just ran into an old friend is all.”
“Which old friend?”
Shit. Well, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to hide this from him for long. “Jake.”
“I thought you’d say that.” He sighs. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I hear the soft screech of a chair sliding across the floor, and a sigh as he sits. “Well, maybe it’s finally time.”
My heartbeat picks up. “What do you mean?”
“You want to live a secret life forever?”
“I’m not living a secret life. It’s just me. Me and no one else.”
“I think that might be worse.”
Frowning, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“You keep this up and you’ll always be living a secret life. It will just either be from mom and dad, or from yourself.”
I wince. “Stop.”
“You have to make a choice sometime.”
“I already did.”
“Yeah. That’s
why you want me to lie to mom and dad about where you are. It’s why you’re so happy back at school. It’s why--”
“Don’t.”
There’s another long pause between us. I watch a spider stumble through the long grass near my shoe, breathing harder into the phone than I should be. Finally, I hear his soft reply. “Fine. Catch up with Jake, I guess. I’ll be here when you make your decision.”
“It’s not that kind of catching up.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Alright, well, if you need me--”
“I’m fine, Adam. Really.”
“Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. “I just want you to know that I’ll be here, no matter what you decide.”
“Thank you.”
The front room is simple. No art adorns the walls. No unnecessary pieces of furniture crowd the corners. A bike, a snowboard, skis, hiking boots and snowshoes line the wall. A beige vinyl floor leads to the kitchen. One of those hard, ugly beige commercial rugs fills the rest of the room. He’s sitting on a sagging orange couch with cushions so faded that they look pink in the center, nursing a beer, watching an animal documentary.
“When are they coming?” he asks without looking away from the TV.
I shut the white door behind me. “They’re not.”
He sets his beer down on the coffee table and glares at me. “What?”
I gulp. You can do this; you have to do this. “He’s not coming. No one is. I’m staying here for a while.”
He removes his cowboy hat and drops it on the empty cushion beside him. Slowly, he runs his hands through his thick, dark hair and I can’t help but remember running my own fingers through it. Grabbing onto it. Kissing him. His soft lips were such a stark contrast to his rough hands. I loved feeling them both run over every inch of my body, teasing me and soothing me.
“What game are you playing?” he asks.
“I’m not playing a game.”
“Your car breaks down on that road, right when you knew—”
“How would I know that you’d be there?”
He goes quiet.
“Why would I ever think you’d go back to that place?” I step closer. “Why did you go back?”
He looks down at his hands. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want to talk about it. Call your brother again.”
“He’s not coming out here.”
His eyes narrow. “Then call someone else.”
“No one is coming.”
“Then I’ll drop you off myself.”
I move closer to him, gulping. “Why can’t we just talk?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“A lot of things.”
He just stares.
Okay. Of course it would be up to me to start things. I glance at the snowboard. “I didn’t know you’d taken up snowboarding.”
He shakes his head. “That’s what you want to talk about?”
“No, I just…I want to know what you’re up to.”
“It’s Mike’s. He hasn’t come by to pick it up yet.”
Something sharp pierces my chest. It’s a sick, dark, unreasonable feeling and I hate that I even have it, but when does the heart ever care about shit like that? “Who’s Mike?”
His eyes narrow. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or snarling. Maybe he’s doing both. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Its a simple question.” I try to keep my voice light.
“Now I know you’re playing games with me.”
“I’m really not, I just--”
“Want to know who I’m fucking after not talking to me for four years.”
I take a deep breath. It wasn’t like I could deny it. “I didn’t come here to talk about your love life.”
“Good, because it’s none of your business.”
I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. “You’re right, it’s not. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m not as in control of things as I want to be.”
He picks his hat up, turns it over in his hands, then puts it in his lap. “Mike was my roommate for a while. We’re friends.”
“Oh.”
“But I haven’t been waiting around for you to show up. I don’t want anything from you, and you shouldn’t want anything from me either.”
That disgusting feeling returns, squeezing my chest. It hurts to breathe. “What do you mean?”
He looks away. “I’ve moved on, Ash.”
I can’t move. I have too, I want to say. I just wanted to catch up, say hi. Because we were good friends too, once, like you and Mike. But I can’t say it. I can’t pretend. And, until this moment, I don’t think I realized just how much I was still living in the past.
Instead, I want to say, I painted cowboy hats for an entire semester. I fall asleep to country music. I never stopped loving you. It never even occurred to me to try.
I know I should leave. I know, under no circumstances, should I ever allow myself to ask him the question that forms in my mind. But I do, even with my heart prematurely breaking.. “So, you’re with someone?”
Who is it? Do you love them? Do you ever think of me? God, I’d bitch slap myself for being so pathetic if I wasn’t too stunned to move.
He puts his hat back on and leans back, his knees sprawled and legs relaxed. “I don’t really do relationships. I don’t really want to hurt that way again.”
Alright, that answer might be worse. “Jake, I’m so sorry.”
“You were young. We both were.”
“It’s no excuse.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, it’s fine. I’m over it.”
No you’re not.
It takes only five steps to reach him, and four more to maneuver around the coffee table. Still, I move slowly. I give him lots of time to tell me to stop. And, if he’d asked me to at any moment, I would have. But even as I put my knee on the cushion beside him--the one he’d left his hat on just moments before--he says nothing.
The couch dips under my weight as I sit on the side of my hip so I’m still facing him. “So you just...have encounters that don’t mean anything?”
His eyes darken. “I wouldn’t say they mean nothing.”
“But you aren’t in a relationship with them.”
“Not in one that lasts.”
I reach out, put my hand on his knee.
He glances at it, then back into my eyes. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet,” I reply.
“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s stupid. No.”
My grip on his knee tightens. “It wouldn’t mean anything.”
He grits his jaw.
“You’d like that, right?”
His eyes flick up to mine. “Don’t pretend this is what I want.”
“Alright.” I lean closer. “It’s what I want.”
“Why?”
I shiver. How could I explain it to him? He’d been with other men. He’d moved on, in a fashion. I hadn’t, even though I tried.
At first, it was women. My mom wanted me to meet a nice girl, and I did. I met quite a few. One of them meant a lot to me, and I wanted her to mean even more. So when she told me to stop teasing her after a few weeks of fooling around, I decided to try.
I still remember lying down on her bed while she sat next to me, trying to get it up with her smooth, soft hands. After fifteen minutes of wildly jerking it she finally let me take over. I closed my eyes and tried to think of anything but her floral perfume, her white cotton bra, and her growing irritation. She didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.
“It’s alright,” she told me, but it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She’d given me a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before pulling her shirt over her head. “Sometimes it happens.”
I ended up eating her out. The taste of her was easy enough to get rid of, but the smell remained o
n my fingers for a full day no matter how much I washed. A few days later we met for coffee and she told me she just didn’t think it was gonna work out. I’d never been so relieved in my life.
I never took another woman out, but I did go home with a guy once.
We didn’t make it all the way to his apartment. After a few minutes of kissing, he reached into his pants and I turned around and closed my eyes.
Jake, I thought. I miss you so much. I remembered him wrapping his arms around my stomach, holding me close as he kissed my neck. I remembered the dirty things he’d whisper in my ear--ridiculous innuendos that would have normally made me laugh if I wasn’t so turned on.
I didn’t know the name of the man behind me. I thought that would make it easier to pretend. Then, his rough hand grabbed the back of my neck. Every muscle in my body tightened. It was wrong. All of it was wrong. I whimpered as he pushed my head into the wall.
“S-stop!” I yelled.
His grip on me got harder. For one horrific second, I thought it wasn’t going to stop. But he did.
I rubbed my neck as he stepped away.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t even face him. After a few moments, he walked me back to the bus stop. He offered me a ride, but I wouldn’t take it.
Someone in the back of the bus had been listening to George Strait on their headphones loud enough for me to hear. I hummed along soft enough not to bother the driver--the only other person on the bus--and watched the neon cityscape pass without any feelings of attachment. My mind was full of trees and stars and warm, rough hands.
He slid his calloused fingers over my knuckles. “Why, Ash?”
Because I want to feel again. Because I want to pretend.
Instead of admitting these things, I wet my lips. Finally, the taste of chocolate and dust was gone. I open my eyes and look into his and all the years that have passed dissolve in that intense, passionate feeling I’d almost convinced myself I’d outgrown.
I close my eyes and lean forward.
I hear him inhale sharply.
Ask me to stop, and I will, I think. He doesn’t. For a moment, I entertain the idea that it’s because he also feels seventeen again and we’re kissing for the first time.
You May Have Met Him Page 18
