Almost

by Anne Eliot

  “I'd rather throw things at you.” And she does. Pelts me with the giant wad of tape and paper. I catch it, but she doesn't emerge. I can hear her pouring plastic frogs into the wire baskets she's been using. “I have no idea. You pick,” she says finally. All laughter has been erased from her voice. This makes me feel bad, sad…annoyed.

  “Come on,” I plead. “I'm not that terrible. You've spent every night at the rink with me for almost a whole week. I think it's been fun for you.” I hook four more frogs onto their lily pads. I'm getting faster at this. “Hasn't it…been fun?”

  “Fishing for compliments, as usual. You are the neediest guy I've ever paid to date me,” she says.

  “Funny. You're the most evasive girl I've ever known. Come on, answer,” I insist.

  “Yes. It's been fun. I already told you that.”

  “Good.”

  We work in silence for a long moment. “Did you decide?” she calls out. Her tone seems hopeful, but I detected a little anxiousness also.

  “Hiking. A short trail. What works best for you? Saturday or Sunday?”

  “Saturday please. Sunday is what my parents call ‘family day’. But mostly we do yard work, clean house or do laundry. Sometimes church. Sometimes movies. Does that work with your rink schedule?”

  “I'm on at five. We'll make a day of it. The picnic lunch is on me. Your job is to locate some hiking gear. Bring a water bottle, sunscreen, all that. The trail is a bit rough but the view is worth it. What's your favorite food?” I ask and my stomach grumbles again at that thought.

  “I like everything,” she says, but she sounds doubtful. “Don't forget,” she adds, “for official dates, you have to pick me up at my house and bring Michelle and Corey. But on pain of death, stay in the car. My parents are getting viciously curious about you, Corey.”

  I hate that she now sounds resigned, as though we just discussed some mandatory chore like toilet cleaning.

  “Fine,” I grumble, feeling slighted. “I'll have the car full of other people and distractions.” I'm getting sick of Corey and Michelle being part of our equation. Our contract. Our new friendship.

  My crush.

  Hell. I just need to admit it. I've got it so bad for this girl that I'm jealous of any conversation, smile or time that Jess gives to my best friends. It's something that's making me feel crazy and it's gone way out of control. It's a crush I need to kill. But how?

  Jess has turned out to be great on every level. Smart, perceptive, hard working and kind. And let's not leave out her soft skin, the hair she hides in those buns. The cinnamon-sunshine pie thing, and the way she lets me put my arms around her when Corey and Michelle are looking.

  The girl has cast some sort of spell on me. One I've been vowing daily, hourly, to ignore. So far I'm having no success with that. Worse, the boring toy building makes it easy to daydream…about her!

  Just now I'd been thinking about the way she fits so perfectly under my chin and next to my heart when I pull her into a hug. The way she eats my nachos every night so carefully, but still manages to wind up with cheese on the corners of her mouth and all over her chin.

  Damn…that alone is beyond hot. How am I supposed to just shut that cuteness down?

  I figure my stupid imagination has allowed this crush to go way out of bounds. I know she's completely off limits. All I can do to keep under control is to remind myself of the night she was almost raped. Remember my part in it—what a chicken shit loser I'd been that night.

  I'd only wanted to be her hero; instead I'd been—crap! I'd been a complete failure. If I continue to entertain thoughts of me, being with Jess—as in—for real—then I'm a complete asshole on every level. Worse, I will have failed her all over again. And I refuse to do that.

  Wanting more from Jess, is pure selfishness. This has to be about her. I need to be satisfied with just being what she wants—what she needs—what she's asked me to be. I'm going to figure out a way to stop my reckless imagination from coming up with impossible scenarios where Jess and I become a real couple.

  Impossible.

  Anything else would hurt her—would cause her to remember. She doesn't deserve that kind of pain no matter what. And not from me.

  I pull another pile of frogs over and snap them together, reminding myself of the stuff that seems to be working for both of us.

  As in, I'm working for her. We have a contract that makes us both happy, I'm getting paid a shit-load of money, and we're both going to college on our own terms.

  I toss down the latest frog-lily-pad-combo and pull out my wallet to look at the $448.00 Geekstuff.com paycheck simmering in there. I haven't put it in savings yet, but I will.

  And then I'll ramp up being the best damn pretend-boyfriend in the world. Whatever she wants. Jess deserves to get the guy she's hired on task and in focus. The girl had no paycheck handed to her today. And for the past two weeks she's worked as hard as me. Maybe harder. And all I've done is daydream about her and wish things were different. They aren't. So I'm going to deal with that and go with what's real. Period. Done with crush. And moving on.

  “Hey, slacker. It's awfully quiet on frog island.” Another volleyball-sized cluster of paper and tape lands with a tape-sticking thwack near my feet and startles me out of my thoughts.

  “Head back to trash planet. I need a basket trade out,” she commands.

  “Coming boss-lady,” I say and empty the few frogs remaining in the large wire basket onto my worktable. I head around the wall of boxes that house Jess's unwrapping empire. For the tenth time that morning, I stop, frozen, and stare.

  All of my latest vows, promises and new resolves melt away.

  She's too cute. And I'm only human. Humans get crushes. It's how we're programmed.

  Today, she's twisted the length of her hair into the most epic bun of all. This one's tennis ball sized and making her little curly wisps of hair twist out in every possible direction. The whole effect of the odd hairstyle, not to mention the smooth skin along the long line of her exposed neck all but does me in. I love that she has zero vanity checks like other girls do. She never looks at her reflection in mirrors or windows. Nor does she flip her hair around, blink her eyes all weird, and never blabs on and on about her clothes or shoes.

  Somehow, her complete lack of attention seems to accent just how pretty and cool she is.

  “What? You on a sugar low? Me too.” She stops to shoot me a grin while she twists one of the rubber bands tighter into that mad bun.

  “Something like that,” I mutter, stifling a groan as I will my body to move toward her when in fact, I know I should be running the hell away from her open smile.

  Those lips. Damn! Someone shoot me. Please.

  “You do look somewhat off.” She shoots me a worried glance. “I've got an extra Red Bull in my car…though I'm not sure if your caffeine-free stomach will be able to hang with the big dogs.” She grins up at me wider.

  I'm gone. Lost. Done for. Crush is back on. Times two to the tenth power. Hell, yes the girl has cast a spell on me!

  All I want to do right now is fall on my knees, tell her the truth, tell her who I am, what I did and apologize for all of it—just to see if she'll forgive me. Find out if we can start this all over. Then…touch her, ask her questions like: does she like me at all? Will she take out that bun so I can see how long her hair really is again? And do we, as a real couple, even stand a chance?

  I shiver. There's no way.

  We'd have to unwind time. Start over three years ago. It's way too late for that.

  “Well? Do you want the Red Bull or not?” She arches one graceful brow, waiting. Shit. I've been standing here blinking down at her like a total, zombied freak.

  “No thanks. I can wait until lunch,” is all I can manage. I start forward and set down the empty basket at the edge of her crisscrossed knees. Christ, even her work-grubby knees are sexy as hell!

  Help me, someone!

  Unable to speak or meet her gaze after what I've just b
een thinking, I take up the full basket she loaded and turn to leave.

  “How's it look out there?” she asks, not at all noticing my absolute shut-down. She leans back into one of the mini mountains of paper, boxes, bubble wrap, and cardboard she's created behind her. The move catches my eye and I can't help but stare all over again.

  Hell. I'm caught in a living hell.

  She's blinking up at me and I realize I'm supposed to answer.

  “We're…starting to show real progress,” I choke out, working to ignore the surge of blood that's rushed into my head. It also surges into other places down lower. Places I do not want her to notice! It's like I'm back in seventh grade—meaning not able to control anything.

  “This is not half bad as far as comfort goes.” She leans back farther with a yawn and stretches her arms over her head. I can't squelch the image of me pushing her back into that pile of packing material and making out with her. For a long, long time.

  I'm a sick, sick, stalking bastard with a crush on a girl I can never have, and there's nothing I can do about it.

  “You should take a little break?” she says.

  “Mmmhm.” My throat has gone completely dry. I can't even swallow.

  “I'm taking a little break right here,” she adds, closing her eyes. This brings my attention back to her lips and, then of course, to the rest of her. “Mmm,” she sighs again.

  Everything in my body surges to max capacity and I don't even care.

  Does the girl have no mercy? Isn't some sort of devil supposed to show up right here and suck me underground? Make me sign away my soul? Or did that already happen when I put my name on her stupid boyfriend contract? That can't be right. When you sign away your soul you get what you want. And I'm not even close.

  I shove the basket of plastic frogs in front of my pants and all but run back around the boxes to the safety of my waiting stack of lily pads.

  Nothing like four thousand, hellish plastic frogs to calm a guy down.

  Frog to lily pad.

  Frog to lily pad.

  Frog to horrible, boring, stupid freaking Geekstuff.com plastic, lame-ass, lily pad.

  Frog to lily pad.

  Frog. Lily pad.

  I shove one of the piles to the side and attack the next.

  Now I'm the one dreading our date.

  Jess was right. It is going to be a chore. If Jess is making me this insane while lounging around in recyclables, I can only imagine how amazing the girl will look in dusty hiking gear! Unless she decides to wear a frog t-shirt and a lily pad hat for the rest of the summer, I'm doomed. I attach three more frogs to three more lily pads, but the pounding in my head and other areas will not relent.

  I brace my hands flat against the stainless steel worktable and sigh. “I'm going to lunch. Are you good with me checking out for awhile?” I call over the boxes. “I'm seriously…dying.” I grimace almost laughing at myself. “Jess, you planning to eat something today? I can bring you a sandwich for later if you're going to nap in your car.”

  She doesn't answer.

  “Jess. Earth to Jess Jordan.”

  Crap. Crap. And Crap!

  My stomach growls then twists. There's no need to walk around the stack of boxes to confirm what I suspect.

  She's asleep.

  Which means many painful things.

  1. I'm going to stay here to watch over her.

  2. I'm going to resist the temptation to head back around those boxes stare at her beautiful face and feel sorry for myself while she sleeps.

  3. I'm going to ignore my stomach and build enough frog-lily-pads to cover for both of us until she wakes up. No matter how long it takes.

  4. When she does wake up, I'm going to play it off and get us both a snack from the machines in the employee break room so we can start on the lanyards together.

  Because I have a paycheck and she doesn't.

  Because we have a contract. And because she needs me to honor that contract.

  Not for any other reasons.

  No other reasons.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jess

  The jellyfish tentacles in the lamp are in focus now, but something's still not right.

  I unclamp my arms from around my knees and stand, wincing as the blood rushes back into my legs with thousands of pin-pricks. My comforter falls to the floor. I pad across the room, pausing at my desk to scratch the number 617 below the recent 456, and last week's winning number of 507.

  All numbers I've logged since the internship started. 617. Record high. Not a good trend.

  To try and regain my breathing—my bearings—anything, I let my gaze travel through, into and out of each of my favorite movie posters.

  Pride and Prejudice always comes first. Mr. Darcy, staring at the Keira Knightley version of Elizabeth while the sun comes over their shoulders. The last scene. Where they vow to never part. I love the way he's got his forehead next to hers. In that whole, perfect movie…they only kiss once…

  Next: Jack and Rose from Titanic. They face the ocean on the ship's bow. Soaring together, facing the world.

  The most captivating poster of all is from Romeo and Juliet. It's from the 90's movie that starred Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes before they got all old. The whole play is filmed, word for word, in a modern, gang/mobster setting.

  I have the poster of Romeo and Juliet staring at each other through an aquarium.

  I've stared at this poster and watched the movie, not to mention the YouTube clips of this one single moment—the moment where they first meet—countless times.

  Romeo sees Juliet first. His expression is so sure. He knowsthat he will never be the same. H's lost and in love with Juliet forever. With zero words exchanged, his course is set.

  Juliet's expression is equally startled when she sees Romeo. She seems amazed—but cautious. Like she's smarter—at first. But if you watch the YouTube clips closely enough, I swear you can see in Juliet's eyes that she knows she's going to die because of how she feels for this guy.

  I think, this scene is where the true tragedy lives. It's not because they both die in the end. The tragedy is all right there…in the very beginning. When he smiles at her. When she instantly forgets.

  Forgets how dangerous he is.

  You can't blame her for how it plays out. Romeo's so amazing in this movie—what he says to her—how he looks at her. She's obviously drowning in butterflies.

  I know for a fact now, butterflies like that can be horrible, beautiful things. I tear my gaze away from the posters and head for the door. Leaning my head against it, I breathe in as deeply as I can, willing the voices to stop. It's not working—nothing is working tonight. The flashes and voices won't quit.

  I even think I heard Gray's voice in my nightmare! He's become so tangled into my messed up life, it makes sense that he'd wind up inside my head. Trapped in my nightmares—my dreams and the in-between parts of my mind where I hide secret, unspeakable wishes. I suppose he's mixed in there forever now, with all the rest.

  The most amazing, best thing, floating through everything that's the worst.

  That thought gives me this incredible surge that I hate Gray. Hate him a lot.

  Then I wonder if I've started to go crazy. This time—crazy for real.

  That has to be what's happening to me. Why I can't get control. This is all too much. How long can one person live on a few hours of stolen sleep each day before going bonkers? Hopefully a few more weeks. That's all I need, and then this madness can be over.

  I shudder because I'm afraid. Afraid like I haven't been in a long, long time. What if I can't make it? What if I'm stuck in this bedroom for the rest of my life?

  I fling open my door and head out on shaking legs to my sister's room. I need help. Some sort of solace. Kika's the only beacon of light I trust. I know she'll at least distract me from the tornado of confusion that's attacking me.

  Her room's lit up green from the fish nightlight she's had since she was six. Even though it's
summer, she's afraid of insects and keeps her windows closed tightly. It's a phobia that makes her room endlessly suffocating. That's just what I need. To be suffocated so my thoughts don't have any more room to breathe is just perfect.

  “Kika? Can I snuggle in? Just for a bit?” I whisper.

  “Mmph.” Kika scoots to one side as she holds up the covers. “Time is it?”

  “You don't want to know.” I snuggle in back-to-back not caring that she'll feel my shakes. I resist the urge to cling to her and cry like a baby. “What's that smell?” I ask instead.

  “My lotion. BathLand discontinued it,” she mutters as she yawns, waking up. “I bought all they had.”

  I smile a little. “Is that the lotion you hit me with before I went to the rink the other night?”

  Kika taps her nightlight one notch brighter and turns to look at me. “Peach Cobbler.”

  Her light blue eyes, so much like mine, sparkle even in the dim light. Her feather-wisp brows are drawn together and she's frowning. Watching my face.

  Kika always tracks me with the same worried expressions Mom uses. Their voices are also exactly the same. On the phone, no one can tell them apart. But unlike Mom, Kika seems to know exactly what I need after my nightmares. She's quietly watching and waiting for me to get myself together—minus any sort of question and answer torture session.

  No judgment, no speculation on ‘what it all means’. I love her for that. For everything.

  “So…you liked the lotion?” she asks finally. She must have discerned that I'm not going to bawl all over her or flip into a deeper level of shaking like I've done in the past. She snuggles back into her pillow. “I'll lend you more if you want—for any other special occasions you might have coming up,” she hints, but her voice is too low. Heavy. She's worried about me.

  I try to joke, “I appreciate the offer, but I think that lotion should only be worn on a consistent basis if you're thirteen, trying to repel insects, horrify guys and attract bears all at the same time.”

  “Hey now…”

  “Not that I'm saying I won't need to do all of that…some day. I'll let you know.”