He’s quoting me. I arch an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
“What other conclusion can you draw after knowing that what I just said is the truth?”
I poke around my salad and stab a strawberry. “Okay, wise guy, I’m actually a size four. I squeeze into a two. I’m impressed, though. Did you go online and memorize that?”
Laughter flows from his mouth like rushing water, and it sweeps over me like a tsunami washing away all that was before. “Memorization is such a shallow way of contemporary thinking, and to be honest, one shouldn’t—”
“Oliver.”
He puts his fork down and takes a sip of his coffee. “Let’s just say...I don’t...forget things.” He says it slow, quiet, pausing often, like he’s afraid of my reaction.
Something unexpected washes over me. His revelation makes me feel both fascinated and—the most extraordinary—interested. “Like ever?”
“I’ll show you.” He wipes the corners of his mouth with a fine napkin. “Give me a date.”
“What?”
“Give me a date. Whatever date in the past that most pleases you.”
“Okay.” I push my plate away and try to refocus myself. “How about January thirty-first, 2000?”
He clears his throat, probably wondering why I chose this date. I actually have no idea.
“Let’s see...” He turns it over in his mind. “It was a Monday. I had a slice of pizza for lunch at a café, a lecture in probability and random variables at MIT. An airplane crashed over the Pacific Ocean that day. Engine failure. There were no survivors.”
My heart gives a bound. A part of me believes him, the other part of me, still weary, wants to question him. “You’re joking.”
“Look it up yourself if you like.”
“I can believe the crash. But you can’t expect me to believe you went to MIT at sixteen.”
He takes a moment, probably trying to sort his thoughts out. “How’d you figure out I was sixteen?”
“It’s not rocket science. It was in 2000... you’re twenty-nine...basic math.”
“I was fifteen. My birthday wasn’t until March. I knew you were smart, however,” he says, looking into my eyes. And I knew he was charming, as charming as they come. “I happen to like smart women.”
Which means absolutely nothing. I chuckle softly and shift in my seat. “I’m pretty sure Miss Carter in the second grade would disagree. I was so slow at math I had to go down to a lower grade math group because the slowest math-learning people in my class were still too advanced for me. I could get the math right, but not fast enough.”
“Fast or slow only makes a difference in situations like competitions or tests,” he says. “Real life scenarios aren’t like that. Math is patient. Fermat’s Last Theorem took more than three and a half centuries to prove.”
Who’s last what? “I don’t know...I overcomplicate everything. I asked too many questions and I always wanted evidence that whatever I was learning was true. Imagine my teacher’s outrage when I asked her why two plus two equals four.”
Oliver pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles something on a napkin. Meanwhile, I keep ranting. “You know what Mrs. Carter said to me? ‘Sophie, it’s like asking why the sky is blue.’ I was so upset. I mean, really? Is that how school works?”
A second later, he pushes the napkin in front of me. I’m intrigued by his spiky handwriting; it’s small and neat. I can hardly make it out, and as far as my eyesight can tell, he’s written a bunch of numbers, an equation. I stare at it blankly at first, then realize he answered my question.
“There is never just one answer to a problem. Two plus two doesn’t always add up to four,” he says. “But when it does, that’s the reason why.”
Slowly I look up at him and smile because to him it mattered. Our little banter mattered. Or maybe I mattered. He was genuinely listening, attentive. There aren’t many people who listen to me nowadays, truly listen.
“See what I mean?” I tease, trying to sound like he doesn’t have an effect on me. “It’s because of people like you that I had to keep up. I dreaded going to school. I was just never a good student.”
He smiles, cool and casual. “The problem is traditional academia, Sophie. Not you.”
“Right. This coming from the guy who most likely slept his way through middle school and still made it top of his class.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t my fault. I can assure you there are a couple of completely legitimate reasons. However, it doesn’t take a smart student to pass a class. Just as it doesn’t take a fool to fail. It’s beside the point.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to Miss Carter. I’m keeping the napkin by the way, just in case I ever bump into her again.” I lean back in the patio chair, tilting my head so as to get a better view of the skyline. “So...why are you good at remembering things? Is it because you’re some kind of genius?”
“A genius?” He half-laughs. “I might not have a normal brain, but I’m no genius.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your IQ?”
“The brain is a very complicated organ, Sophie. You can’t quantify everything.”
“I bet it’s high, isn’t it?”
“People have to stop trying to put a number on intelligence.”
It’s high all right. “Why are you even telling me all this?”
“Consider it an apology,” he says. “It is only fair that you know an essential part of me, when I already know so much about you.”
“Apology accepted.” I smile. “When did Elvis Presley die?” I joke, in no way expecting that he might answer correctly.
“1977. August. It was a Tuesday. He was forty-two. Also in 1977, the first Apple computer went on sale. We can do this all day long, sweetheart.”
My heart gives a bound. “Why do you even know that? I mean, really.”
“I read it in an old newspaper at the public library when I was nine.”
I can’t deny that I feel good, that I’m on board with discussing things that push the boundaries of my daily existence.
Oliver rises from his chair and fetches two martini glasses with a creamy dessert inside from the food trolley.
I look at the dessert cup in front of me with great anticipation. Granola is sprinkled on top. “Is this...pudding?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Chocolate pudding.”
Oh boy.
“What?”
I smile. “Nothing.”
“It’s protein-packed. Dig in.”
Our smiles break out in mutual recognition of some inner kinship, and we laugh like we’ve known each other forever. There is a spark of fire mixed with giddy desire igniting my heart. It is atomic-powered attraction.
***
AFTER A SHORT time—five minutes or so—Oliver’s driver has his car pulled over outside my apartment complex.
Inside the building, Oliver and I walk toward the elevator. The doors separate from each other. Huddling together with other people, I peek up at him and try to push back a smile.
“You should stop fidgeting,” he says into my ear.
“You should stop telling me what to do.”
I step out of the elevator, into the hallway, and search my key ring for my front door key. As my fingers are caught in a wrestle with the range of keys, I begin to wonder what half of them do or what they access. I don’t know why such a worthless object has decided to become a problem for me at this moment, when all I want is to conceal myself from the appropriate corners of Oliver’s life. The ones that apply. But someday I will sort out this key ring.
“I can’t believe this,” I say. “I can’t find my stupid key.”
“Sophie.”
I put my palm up to his face. “Shut up.” I find my means of entry and mouth “thank you” to the heavenly power that has delivered my big aha! moment.
“You know what happened to the last person who told me to shut up?”
My eyes shoot up like someone has pulled a projector screen and let go, then I tur
n my attention to the doorknob and my fingers fumbling to get the key into the hole therein. From my peripheral vision, I catch Oliver coming closer to me. I intend to show him how little his question meant to me by turning to face him casually. But I know it’s a matter of time before I have enough fuel to start my emotional engine. This is a big problem, me being susceptible to emotional destruction on a level beyond my knowing.
When I notice a familiar, otherworldly grin emerges to rest on his lips, I can’t help but show him what I really feel. Certified, honest-to-goodness, vulnerability. I mean to speak, say something...anything...maybe even an “I don’t want to know,” but it seems my brain is out of sync with my speaking skills.
“Oliver,” I say, as if I’m trying his name on for size.
He places a hand against the wall of the hallway, leaning in toward me slightly. He positions his index finger on my mouth, coaxing my silence, and lazily runs it along my lower lip. I can’t take my eyes off his.
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“This...” I flounder. “Us. We should keep our relationship strictly professional.”
“Professional?” He puts some distance in between us, chuckling as he goes. “I know you like sleeping on the left side of the bed with the blanket pulled up to your nose because the feel of your own breath against it is comforting. We’re past professional.”
I can’t believe I told him that. How drunk was I last night? “We’re just...,” those blue eyes blaze at me and steal my breath, drawing me in, “just different people on different paths.”
He comes closer, until he’s standing a centimeter away from me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me,” he dares.
“Jesus. Are you really that confident?”
“I’m really that interested.”
“Is this how it goes? Is this what you say to other girls?”
“What other girls? Look around. You’re the only one inconveniently giving me a difficult time.”
“You’re right... I’m sure difficult is something you don’t normally come across.”
“It seems to me you keep judging that which you don’t know nothing of.” I part my lips to speak, but I am baffled at the formulation of his clever response. “How about we start with dinner and see where things go from there?”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Are you saying yes?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Do you?”
“Goodbye, Oliver,” I say in a singsong voice.
He takes a few steps toward me, and leans in close. My eyelids flutter. “Yesterday,” he says into my mouth. “I said good night, you said, ‘can’t you sleep here?’ and I asked you why. You said, and I quote, ‘because the bed is too big. Because I’m cold. Because I like you.’ End quote.”
“Okay, you have to understand I was drunk.”
“So?”
“So don’t believe anything I said.”
“What about now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t trust myself around you. Talking to you is like drinking tequila. One minute I’m in control, and the next I’m—”
He holds me hard against him, then he claims my lips, brutally, violently, the way I was secretly hoping he would. And I kiss him back with so much force it nearly knocks all air from my lungs. His touch is desperate and swift and I don’t know whose buttons come off first or who is holding onto who tighter. He bites down on my lip, drawing a dribble of blood.
He pulls away for a moment, dragging my lip through his teeth as he does. I swipe my finger across my lip and taste the tang of metallic blood. I smile a little. On tiptoes, I reach for his head and crush my lips against his. I let my fingers roam through his hair and he curves me into him, his hands pressing me closer and closer.
I could cry. I could scream. I feel joyously alive.
I’m slammed back against the door and it blasts wide open.
“Sophie!”
I jerk away from Oliver with the intensity of a thousand lighting strikes. The realization is strong, catches me off guard, as I hear Jess’s voice calling me from somewhere. I’m still intoxicated with the enchantment of Oliver when reality slaps me in the face.
I whip around quick as a wink. Jess is sitting with Eric and her parents in the living room.
Double whammy!
SIX
I COUGH IN embarrassment and run my fingers over my lips like I’m dusting off the evidence. But in fact, I’m analyzing the quality of the taste.
They’re just sitting there looking right at us, their eyes wide in a “we saw you and we know!” stare. Their wine glasses are still lifted in mid-air as they scrutinize our sizzling encounter. I feel like a streetwalker who has just walked into a nunnery.
“These are my parents,” Jess says uneasily. Oliver approaches them like nothing happened. With perfect composure, he shakes hands with them both. “Pleasure, I’m Oliver Black.” It’s a real testimonial to his suave way of approaching everything.
While I get my own perturbed self together—enough to make myself presentable—Jess shoots me evil-eye glances out of the corner of her eye, signaling me to step into the light.
“This is my boyfriend, Eric,” she tells Oliver. “I don’t remember if you were introduced before.”
“Eric. Yes. We’ve met.” Both Oliver and Eric shake hands like a couple of boxers getting ready to square off. When Eric isn’t donning his medical scrubs, he’s dressed in something that would most likely come out of an eighth grader’s closet: blue baseball cap, a crew neck white tee, gray slacks, and blue tennis shoes.
I just stand there, stiff as a Barbie doll, although not so well groomed.
“Mom. Dad. Oliver is Sophie’s boyfriend.”
I cringe. If my face went pale a minute ago, I’m now about ten shades paler. I throw Jess a death glare, then another, for smiling and looking like she enjoys my discomfort. My eyes fly onto Oliver. I’m not sure of what he might say...or do even. But to my surprise, he’s already lassoing me toward him, holding me like a prayer, and kissing my hair in accordance with recent introductions. Someone nominate him for best actor.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. Jess has told me a lot about you,” I say politely, half-tormented.
Oliver asks if he can refill anyone’s drink and removes himself from my side. I watch as he makes himself at home, grabbing a glass of wine and diving into conversation with Jess’s parents. They seem to have fallen under his spell as they follow him to the kitchen.
I can all but see the dislike running through Eric’s veins, and it makes me feel like a sinner burning in Gehenna. “This is unexpected. How long have you been dating?” he asks.
This is something I don’t want to lie about. “Honestly, we just met five—”
“Five weeks ago!” Jess promptly puts in. She scolds with eyes as huge as an owl’s.
Eric has his opinions written all over his face. “Really? Five weeks? I don’t remember you mentioning anything.” I follow his small, blue eyes across the living room and into the kitchen, to where Oliver is talking to Jess’s father over wine.
***
I SET MY palms on the bathroom’s cold countertop. A small mirror hangs above it, forcing me to stare at my total insecurity square in the face. I purse my lips in thought and run my boney fingers over the crevices of my face.
Just when I think of lighting a smoke, someone starts knocking on the door. I keep silent. Hopefully, whoever it is will leave.
“Sophie, may I come in?”
“No,” I mumble with the cigarette still perched unlit between my lips.
Whatever non-existent welcoming tone Oliver detects in my voice persuades him to open the door. I hurriedly throw the cigarette into the trash bin. Oliver looks relaxed as he walks in. His expression is pleasant and his lips curl up in a playful grin.
“You must be Sophie. I’ve been looking for a woman like you.”
<
br /> He comes closer to where I’m standing with my head bowed and my arms crossed over my chest. I immediately notice the third button of his shirt is unfastened, a light dusting of chest hair peeking out, and I can almost feel the heat of him burning through. He makes it enormously difficult for me not to want to unbutton the fourth...and the fifth...and then ultimately take off his shirt. There is a whole new electricity between us now.
“She’s about your stature, same color of hair, same exquisite hazel eyes...she even dresses like you.”
“You must have me confused for someone else.”
He finally comes through, in a quiet, humorless voice. “Is everything okay? What are you doing in here?”
“What do you think I’m doing? Hiding. We put on a little show out there.” I explain the obvious.
“I know. I was there.”
I instantly remember the taste of him. The kiss was long, hungry, and when we broke apart for air, I knew what I had already known deep in the gallows of my heart but had ignored...I wanted more, I wanted all of him. When he touched me, I saw fireworks.
“You know,” I begin saying. “For a private person...you sure do open up to strangers. Not to mention total strangers like Jess’s parents.”
“Is it a crime?”
“Yes it is, if the crime is going way too fast.”
“How is saying what I have in mind being construed as going too fast?”
“Since what you had in mind landed on my lips the way it did a couple of hours ago.”
“You kissed me back, didn’t you?”
“Well, of course I kissed you back! What did you expect? If it’s blame we’re looking to cast, then let’s admit you wooed me.”
He laughs. “I did, didn’t I?”
I feel his breath on my lips...the scent of his minty freshness...and it weakens my bones to their ultimate frailness.
I look at him, serious, my forehead crumpled. “Why are you acting so natural about this? Don’t you have any shame? Or...I don’t know...decency?” I am baffled to the point of frustration. “Nothing troubles you. Nothing can bother you. I swear, it’s like you’re handling life like a puzzle you can easily solve; meanwhile I’m always thinking there’s a missing piece in mine. I can never solve it. I can never piece it together. I can never be calm. Where do you get your calm? Really, I need to know this.”
A Diamond in the Rough Page 8
