Sparrows For Free

by Lila Felix

  “Only if I get to cook. And I swear it won’t be like last time we tried this.”

  “Sounds good,” he smiled, forcing down a yawn.

  “You should go home, you look tired.”

  “Why are you always kicking me out? I am tired. I’m afraid if I leave you’ll forget this night ever happened.”

  I hesitate—once—twice—then skim my palm over his stubbly chin, “How could I ever forget this night?”

  Well, welcome back, nervous question asking.

  “Will you forget this, yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Good, and now I can go.” He kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I intonate it like a question.

  I am still perching on the edge of the couch when the door closes. It’s as if he took my very breath with him. I look around for witnesses, even in the furniture around me, mostly the cabinet. And if it wasn’t completely mental, I would ask that cabinet if what just happened, really happened. It would tell me the truth, if it could.

  Ezra

  That night, getting home from Aysa’s house, my chest is welling up with an emotion I thought was resistant to the likes of me. It’s something near joy—but surrendering to that thought was unpalatable.

  My smile registers the emotion anyway as I think of the little I know about her, even though her very presence retains a familiarity.

  Being near her feels like home.

  I love that she likes my friends.

  She has no capability of bullshit with me—none. Just a bit of coaxing and she’s raw—unvarnished, almost naked—plus, her eyes will never allow her mouth to lie about her emotions. They shine bright and unadulterated with the pure truth of what she feels.

  It’s almost an honor—because I have a feeling she does a bang up job fooling the rest of the world.

  Which is why she’s so quiet, a slight phantom, ghosting around. That way she can pretend the world doesn’t hurt her.

  That’s how she whispers through cemeteries and ducks out of offices unnoticed.

  She’s practiced at avoiding situations.

  It’s breathtaking.

  It’s scary as shit.

  Wait until she finds out who I am and what I’ve done.

  What am I thinking?

  “Did you talk to her,” Gray says, sitting in the floor of the kitchen. The almost nearly empty gallon of milk tells me she’s using cereal to digest her woes.

  “Yeah,” I attempt to make my voice upbeat.

  “Of course she melted for you, right?” She’s annoyed with the situation, and I can’t figure out why. I’ve always tried to mask my annoyance when she starts dating.

  “No. I mean, we’re going to date or whatever.”

  Why did I just belittle what Aysa and I just shared in front of Gray? Why can’t I just be honest?

  “I’ll find something to do,” she slumps down a little more on the floor shrugging her shoulders.

  There it is. I’ve sorted it out with myself that this is what I’ll be dealing with for a while. I don’t know if I knew it before. Aysa brought it all to light, or if it is a new thing, but Gray is jealous—and nasty about it. She admitted it to me on Friday night when I finally sat her down and confronted her. I had to. It wasn’t the kind of jealousy born of lovers, it was the kind where a new friend was added to the group and the others just gravitated toward them. She also admitted that she liked to have me all to herself.

  Finally, nearing dawn on Saturday morning, I asked her the burning question: ‘Are we friends because we’re friends—or because of Mara?”

  And if it is because of Mara—then we are both rolling in a ball of sickness.

  She claimed she was tired and failed to answer my question—it was an answer all in itself.

  I guess I’ll have to tell Aysa about the mess of Mara. We won’t go far if I don’t.

  “How can I tell her,” I ask the air more than Gray.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. Her tone betrays her yet again. She doesn’t believe that any more than I do. Even a piece of her hair falls out of her clip, failing to believe her lies.

  “I won’t lie to her.”

  “Don’t you see?” she murmurs in a sinister tone, “You already are.”

  I decide to join in her cereal maceration. I grab the tools of the trade and the huge box of Corn Pops and slide to the floor next to her. She sees me, and before I partake of my guilt trip, we clink spoons.

  “Welcome to the world of dating someone who didn’t know her. It blows. And no matter how much they try, they don’t understand. They never will.”

  “I have to try,” I say before shoveling a spoonful into my mouth.

  “Let me know how that works out for you.”

  She get up shortly after, throws her bowl in the sink, and stomps out of the room.

  Yes, I would tell her—eventually.

  The next night, I show up on Aysa’s doorstep right on time. She pulls it open and her Christmas apartment is in full force.

  “Hi,” she says, waving me in.

  I waste no time in touching her. After she shuts the door, I drag her to me and hold her against my chest. Her head fits under my chin, but she’s stiff, like she doesn’t know how to hug me back.

  “Come on, Ace, you hug Dauber.”

  “You’re not exactly the same as him. And since when do you call me Ace?”

  “Since you started calling me Ez—which I hate by the way.”

  “Do you,” she broke free of my hold. The lights do something brilliant to her already bright face. Her skin glows with a Bokeh effect, tiny orbs of Christmas spirit making her seem like a dream. The bright mint of her eyes cause everything bad in my life fade—all the shadows become blurry, and the spotlight shines on her.

  “Yes. That’s what my friends call me—people from high school.”

  “Oh, well, I won’t do it.”

  I think she’s going to move away, but instead she grabs onto me again, and I can feel her hands on the small of my back, gripping my shirt. My hands find her soft hair, entangling folds of it. She begins to let go, and I decide it’s time to relent—though everything in me demands I hold her.

  “Something smells good,” I mention, noticing the aroma of chicken in the air.

  “I didn’t know what you like. I made chicken spaghetti.”

  “I eat anything.”

  “Good to know.”

  We eat at her tiny kitchen table. The conversation flows flawlessly. I could talk to her about everything, and she’d have a point of view I’d never heard. She sits in opposition from everyone else. Aysa sees things from a completely different perspective, and I wonder from second to second what her take on Mara would be. I wonder if somehow, her opinion of the situation could shock my brain into thinking about it differently.

  She shoots up and finagles with an iPod player on the kitchen counter. It lands on some band I’ve never heard of. She digs into eating again, explaining the music is from a band in Ireland.

  “So, do you only dance by yourself or would you consider dancing with me?”

  “Only by myself,” she says not looking at me.

  “Why?”

  She shrugs, trying and failing at ambiguity; “Because I never have.”

  “Then you have to dance with me. You owe me anyway.”

  That gets her attention; “In what world do I owe you?”

  “In the world where you swindle me out of fifty bucks by pretending you don’t know how to play video games.”

  She looks to the floor next to us—the two of them have some mental discussion. I can tell she’s not winning, by the way, she begins to chew on the inside of her cheeks. I take full advantage of her indecision by grabbing her hand and standing up, “Come on, Aysa.”

  “Fine,” Her voice makes it sound like it’s not okay.

  The Irish band helps me out as I position us into a simple motion. I guide one of her hands to my shoulder and the
other laying in my palm. Aysa sucks in a breath when my free hand finds the waist I’ve been dying to get my hands on. She stares a hole into my chest for a while until I start to tell her something lame about dancing in high school.

  “Who taught you to dance,” she asks.

  “My mom—in the living room. I was going to a homecoming dance, and I had no clue how to dance. I made her shut all the blinds and curtains and lock the doors. But now I wish I’d thanked her for it.”

  She shrugs one shoulder; “So thank her now.”

  “That simple?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  I am ashamed of my response, “I haven’t spoken to her in months.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know where I stand with them. I know they love me, but I don’t know if they want to see me all the time.”

  “Who could ever not want to see you,” she whispers. I can tell the admission embarrasses her by the bright flush on the apples of her cheeks. Then she thumps her head against my chest. Maybe she didn’t mean to say it. Maybe she regretted saying it.

  It occurs to me, no—she did mean it. And now she’s hiding.

  “Hide as long as you need to—but just know you’re denying me by hiding.”

  “Huh?” she prompts but doesn’t look up.

  “I can’t see you when you’re hiding and who could not ever want to see you?”

  Half a song later, she finally looks back up at me.

  “Wait,” I stop us, “didn’t you go to your prom?”

  She shakes her head; “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  I shouldn’t have brought this up. Why am I ashamed to say it? Because I know, it’s a jab to the bruise.

  “Who did you go with?”

  “Gray.”

  She tenses, “Huh.”

  “It wasn’t like that. My girlfriend—she wasn’t around anymore, and Gray and I went as friends.”

  “What happened to your girlfriend,” she asks. How can she ask such a question so innocently? Because she doesn’t know the answer. I just opened the door and invited her right in.

  This is when the panic begins. The small space grows too hot. I can practically feel the pores on my forehead burst open with buttons of sweat. I feel like the sheer anxiety might seep from my veins and taint hers, so I pull back.

  “What did I do?”

  “You?” I try desperately to contain the tone of my voice. My friends know that sometimes I yell when these things hit me—but Aysa takes offense—and rightfully so. “It’s me and what I did.”

  She pulls out a chair and with tiny hands pushes down on my shoulders and forces me to sit. I think she’s gonna coddle me or try to make me talk, but she doesn’t. She picks up the plates and food from the table. Watching her methodology turns into my trip down the mountain. I breathe in and out deeply while I watch her intricate pattern of dishwashing. She doesn’t have to say anything. Just who she is has me back to myself in record time—no nervous legs or cravings to run myself blind.

  I finally stand up and move to stand next to her at the counter. I pick up a dish towel and she hands me the next dish to dry like nothing even happened.

  “We’re the same, you know.”

  Me—the same as her—no, that can’t be true.

  “How do you figure?”

  She passes me another plate, “We both hide. You hide in yourself, and I hide in small spaces.”

  “What are you hiding from?”

  “That’s not the real question. The real question is—what triggered the hiding. If you could let the trigger go, the bullet couldn’t fire.”

  She sighs loudly, “How about we just go do something fun. We’re always so—intense.”

  “Yeah. What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. I have to go to work tomorrow. It’s late already.”

  She wipes down the already clean counters. This is not how either of us intended the night to progress. I’m such a disaster.

  “I wish I could just forget who I am with you.”

  She turns on me, “Don’t forget who you are. But Jesus, at least try to move on. You’re obviously consumed by something that happened a long time ago.”

  “You’re one to talk,” the remark came out and I was helpless to stop it.

  “Mine was relatively small, I just let it shape who I became. So let’s help each other. Tell me what your deal is, and I’ll tell you what mine is.”

  “Just like that?”

  Aysa nods, “Just like that.”

  I blow out a loaded breath, “I need a drink.”

  “Then let’s go.” She grabs my hand, her keys and her purse and doesn’t let go until we reach her car. She drives us to a hole in the wall bar. The walls are paneled in a deep walnut color. There are couples scattered at tables and singles seated at the bar. She nods to a girl behind the bar and the girl ducks her head and resumes drying glasses like she wishes Aysa hadn’t just come in. I follow her meandering through the tables until she sits at one in the very back corner. The reddish lights make her look like a scarlet imp. The table is wobbly despite the packs of matches under one of the table’s legs. A worn woman approaches the table and asks for our orders. Aysa orders a coke and I order a vodka rocks.

  I’m thinking of a way to tell her. At what angle does one approach confessing murder? I can’t believe I’ve done this. I’ve followed her to a place for the sole purpose of telling her a story that may run her off in the end.

  What happened to telling her eventually?

  Eventually got lost in the thumbprint of her eyes, just like I did.

  The woman delivers our drinks, and I take one long gulp. I can do this. I can tell her.

  “Mara. That was her name. She was my girlfriend. We’d only gone out for about three months or so when she told me she was pregnant. I didn’t love her. That was the worst part. But I was willing to do whatever to make it right. When I proposed, she laughed at me—told me that just because she was pregnant didn’t mean we had to get married. Her main concern was that she was gonna get fat. Her parents demanded that she put the baby up for adoption, and her mom just wanted her to have an abortion. So, a few months later, we were driving to the adoption place. She’d spent the night at Gray’s house the night before, so I picked her up there and her parents and my parents were gonna meet us at the attorney’s office. I was distracted. I was thinking about her and the baby. She named him. Why would you name a kid you intended to get rid of? I kept thinking of ways to get out of putting our kid up for adoption. She named him Luca. It was raining and wet, and I hit the brakes as fast as I could but it was too late. Next thing I knew, we were in a U shape around a tree and a branch was poking through her chest.”

  By the time I finish, I’m about to hyperventilate, and Aysa’s raising her hand in the air and then pointing to me, ordering a second drink. It was so easy for me to wrap that whole tragedy up in a neatly packaged spiel.

  “How old were you?” She asks.

  “Eighteen.”

  “And how old are you now?”

  “Twenty-one—almost twenty-two.”

  “So, you wrecked the car on purpose to get rid of her and the baby? Or you sabotaged the brakes so you’d purposefully wreck? That was your plan all along?”

  She says these things and then sips her stupid Coke casually.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So, it was an accident?”

  “Of course, it was an accident. What kind of person do you think I am?”

  She leans in and if this were any other scenario, I’d invite her leaning in, lips wet from her drink. But this is a challenge. She is challenging my notions and my guilt and all the pain I’d kneaded in my heart for so long. Part of me despises her for it.

  “And you and Gray were best friends before the accident?”

  “Gray hated me before the accident.”

  “So you didn’t do it on purpose. You had intentions of doing the right thing, and then you an
d Gray bonded over the loss of a mutual friend. Yet, apparently, it’s something you continue to beat yourself up over. It must suck being you—being stuck in limbo like that.”

  “Why are you trying to make it sound so simple?”

  She’s circling her finger around the rim of her glass, “It’s simple to me.”

  I sat back just to get some distance from her and her simplified opinions.

  “It’s not simple when I see Gray become comatose twice a year, sometimes more. It’s not simple when every time I hear brakes squeal or glass breaking, I have trouble breathing. It’s not simple when my friends tip toe around me because they’re afraid at any moment, I might crack.”

  She squints at me. I feel her intent—it’s like she’s studying my insides.

  “So take…never mind.”

  This whole conversation with her was—itchy. She wasn’t feeding me the regular, ‘Oh, no, poor Ezra’ like the rest of the people I know. That’s what I expected from Aysa. I can’t ever figure her out. I hope I never do.

  “No, please continue.”

  “You’re angry?”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “You look pissed.”

  I shake my head. I’m so angry.

  She sits back and crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine. Take your friends out of the equation. I mean, if it were just you, would you be able to move on?”

  “I don’t know. How can you just take friends out of the equation?”

  “Probably because I don’t have many.”

  “They were there for me when I needed them.”

  She shoots me an incredulous glare, “But now you’re dragging each other down.”

  We both sigh. This is going nowhere fast.

  “This date blows,” she says, laughing.

  “No shit. I always manage to turn normal into depressing.”

  She grabs for my drink and downs the rest, which isn’t much, signaling for another. “I always manage to turn normal into weird. Damn, that burns.”

  “We need a real date with no freak outs or deep dark discussions.”

  She perks up in her seat, “Are you saying a date can be fun?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s the vodka talking nonsense.”

  I laugh a little too loud and realized the vodka was turning the edges of my clarity into mush. Not enough to make me stupid, but enough to make my tongue a little more loose than normal. Isn’t that the reason I’d drank it in the first place?