What a Girl Wants

by Angie Coleman

  A moment later the hand with which he opened the door falls limply by his side and he is paralyzed, staring at the person standing in front of him. It’s an old woman, with thick blonde hair in a tight bun and a long coat that reaches her ankles. A pair of black patent leather pumps, the same color as the ample purse hanging from her arm, emerge beyond the hem.

  “Jared,” she murmurs with a barely visible smile.

  “Aunt Mallory,” from his tone I gather he wasn’t expecting this visit at all.

  The woman steps in, brushing past him, without taking her eyes off him, while he continues to display his amazement. They have the same eyes, an emerald green that looks grey in the pale light from the window.

  “What are you doing here?” Jared asks hesitantly without closing the door.

  “I’ve come to see you. This business can’t go on much longer,” she explains, coming over to the couch and setting down her purse. There is a peculiar glimmer in her eyes displaying the determination of her actions.

  Jared seems to stir. He hurriedly closes the door and returns to the center of the room.

  “Aunt Mallory, it’s not a good time,” he says glancing at me.

  Only then does Jared’s aunt look at me. “I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says sitting down next to me.

  “Oh, no, don’t worry. This sounds important. Maybe I should come back later,” I hurriedly stand. I feel very much like the third wheel. It’s the first time I’ve met a member of his family and it doesn’t seem to be going too well.

  “In fact, my nephew and I need to sort out some matters that have been left hanging too long,” she explains, keeping her eyes on Jared who is standing as still as a rock by my side. His fists are clenched by his side and he seems on the verge of exploding, but he is too reserved to let himself go in front of other people.

  “I’m on my way. See you later?” I ask before I reach the door. His expression is not heartening.

  “I don’t know,” he replies without even looking at me. His gaze is still focused on his aunt, who returns it without blinking. They definitely have a lot in common, though she seems closer to my grandmother than my aunt in age.

  Crestfallen, I head for the door. Evidently there’s nothing I can do for him now. Outside his apartment, I sit on the first step for a few moments, just to make sure he’s not going to change his mind and call me back. Of course this doesn’t happen, but even so, I was expecting it. I go back to my shop and set to work without managing to shake off the tension I felt in that room. Every now and then I glance at the entrance through the glass doors. I don’t intend to miss the exact moment when Jared’s aunt leaves – I want to be the first to rush upstairs and see how he’s doing.

  Several hours go by in this fashion, until around noon I recognize Aunt Mallory’s coat on the threshold.

  “Excuse me,” she catches my attention. I set the roller on the floor without worrying about the stain and I wipe my hands on my overalls as I walk over to her.

  “You’re Gillian, correct?”

  I wasn’t expecting this. “How do you know my name?”

  “My nephew told me this morning. Apparently, you are the only woman capable of holding her own with him.”

  “Actually, I would have thought you were a master in the art,” the mere memory of how she squared up to him this morning is enough to grant her the top step of the podium.

  “Oh, don’t be fooled. I love him dearly, he is a good boy, but he inherited the hard-headedness and the pride of his grandfather, my brother. Despite my best efforts, I’ve never been able to gain the upper hand with either of them,” she confesses with a bitter smile. The more I look at her, the more I notice the similarities with Jared. “It looks like you have managed to gain a certain influence over him.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t say so.” I’m afraid Aunt Mallory is severely mistaken.

  “I know my nephew very well and I can assure you that this is so. He told me about you and the shop you intend to open here – he would never have done that if it wasn’t important to him. At this moment all his attention and all his energy are focused on a job that is bigger than him. The fact that he told me about you means a lot, believe me,” she confesses earnestly.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Jared has made a mistake that makes him feel guilty. He’s trying to fix it, but this obsession will end up consuming him. This is why I am here. I would like to ask you for a favor.” Mistake? Guilty? Consuming?

  “What can I do?” I don’t want Jared to suffer; I intend to do everything in my power to prevent it.

  “Stand by him, don’t let his fickle manners affect you – he’s just tired. Try to distract him so he gets some rest and try to understand that what happened is not his responsibility alone. But above all, don’t judge him. Please, do it for me, I will show you how grateful I can be,” her determined gaze tells me that she won’t leave until I’ve given her my word. What she probably doesn’t know, is that I don’t need her gratitude to do what is asked of me.

  “I won’t abandon him, I promise,” I reassure her with a smile. She relaxes, the tension that had been evident in her shoulders since she first appeared on the threshold of Jared’s apartment slips away, her expression sweetens.

  “Thank you. I hope to see you soon, Gillian.”

  “I hope so too, Aunt Mallory.”

  *

  “Ernest! Are you here?” I call as soon as I set foot in the shop. I reach the counter and stretch over it hoping to catch a glimpse of his outline beyond the door to the back room. “Ernest!”

  “Yes, I’m here, I heard you, you know? I’m not deaf,” he complains.

  “Sorry, today I’m in a hurry. I need two favors.”

  “A bit much for someone who’s in a hurry,” he remarks, a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

  “I know, but it’s for Jared.”

  “Oh, well, if it’s about Jared than anything is allowed,” he mocks me without bothering to hide it. Ok, he’s right, it’s not an excuse, but I’m really in a hurry.

  “Can I ask you for two favors or not?” I insist, hoping he’ll see my urgency. Instead he calmly removes his glasses and begins cleaning the lenses with a piece of cloth that he pulled as if by magic from under the counter.

  “I assume it wouldn’t be polite to say no.”

  “It would not.”

  “So we can deduce that, as I am a very polite person, your question makes no sense whatsoever and you are also going against your own interests in wasting precious time asking it, right?” His deductions are always correct. I will have to take some lessons from Jane; up until now she is the only one I have seen capable of squaring up to a guy like Ernest.

  “Right,” I find myself agreeing. “So, first of all I would like to know if I can leave early today. I have no intention of sparing myself, let me be clear, I will make up the time with interest tomorrow afternoon, I promise, but if today I could leave a half an hour early it would be great.”

  “Granted,” he concedes, almost uninterested, continuing to wipe his glasses, which seem quite clean to me.

  “And then I wanted to ask you if you had a couple of glasses.”

  “A couple of glasses?” This time I get his attention.

  “Yes, a couple of normal glass glasses.” Ernest rolls his eyes and disappears into the storage room. A moment later he emerges with two identical glasses, tall, with red strawberries printed on them and a wide band the same color around the rim.

  “Strawberries?” I ask, taken aback.

  “Do you have something against fruit?” he asks seriously.

  “No,” why should I?

  “Then strawberries it is,” he decides, then sets the glasses on the counter and begins to wrap them in newspaper.

  “How much are they?”

  “Sixteen cents.”

  “Are you sure? That sounds a bit cheap.”

  “I’m never wrong, dear. Sixteen cents,”
he insists with conviction.

  “Why sixteen?”

  “Because I was born on the sixteenth and sixteen dollars seemed like a ridiculous amount to ask,” he explains as if it were normal. Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked.

  It feels like I’ve been running like mad since I began tidying up Ernest’s kingdom of chaos to when I passed by to pick up the pizza I ordered before I left my future shop at one o’clock. Now I’m out of breath, holding two pizza cartons in one hand, with a bag hanging from the fingers of the other containing two beers and the two glasses with strawberries on them. I use my elbow to ring the bell of Jared’s apartment and prepare to wait. I need a minute to catch my breath anyway. It takes a couple of minutes, but finally he opens the door and dons a questioning expression as he shifts his gaze from my face, to the pizzas, and finally the bag.

  “What are you doing here?” good question. It’s one he’s been asking me often lately; apparently he isn’t at all used to receiving visits.

  “Considering your erratic hours, I thought you wouldn’t have had lunch yet, and since the only thing I know for sure you eat is pizza, here I am,” I explain stepping past him and quickly reaching the kitchen.

  He slams the door and follows me.

  “What are you doing?” he asks me in slight alarm as his eyes flit across the surface on which I am distributing beers and cartons.

  “I’m setting the table,” I simply reply.

  “I can see that, but I don’t see why.”

  “Because I feel like it.” His eyes open wide and a moment later he frowns.

  “Gillian,” he pronounces gravely. It sounds like a warning, but I have no intention of heeding it.

  “It’s Gil for friends, remember?” I ignore him, opening the pizza cartons and arranging them on the table.

  “Yes, I remember, like I remember telling you I don’t need a friend right now. I have to work.”

  “It’s too late; we’re already friends and you’ve got to eat – so sit down,” I order him, pointing at the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  “Don’t you have to work, too?” he tries to play the responsibility card. I look up, disconcerted. Does he really think he can convince me so easily?

  “I’m taking an afternoon off. Normal people do it every now and then you know, to preserve their sanity.”

  “Are you implying I’m crazy?” he asks in mock resentment, but I can already make out the smile blossoming on his lips.

  “I would never. Strange, but not crazy,” I admit, carrying the beers and the glasses to the table.

  “Strange is interesting,” he butters me up.

  “Strange is strange,” I remind him as I take my seat.

  “And what are these?” he asks pointing at the glasses as he gives in and also takes a seat.

  “The first sign of a normal life.”

  “Are you judging my life?”

  “No, I’m making it normal.” He is silent for a few seconds, his expression thoughtful and his eyes on the set table. Then he looks up and pierces me with a deadly serious look.

  “This isn’t going to end well.”

  “I’m not the type to worry about endings before anything has even properly begun.” I can feel Jared’s eyes on me – he has no intention of averting his gaze and I can’t look away. He’s torn, and I wish he would tell me what’s wrong, why he can’t let go and enjoy the moment just this once.

  “And how are you intending to begin?” he finally asks, focusing his attention on the pizza, which I bet is cold by now.

  “By getting to know each other,” I reply, taking the first slice and biting into it. He smiles and I immediately relax. I’m beginning to adore that smile – it’s so rare, but when it appears I am certain I have taken a step forward.

  “Favorite color?” I begin my interrogation.

  “Black.”

  “Black isn’t a color,” I protest with conviction. “It’s not primary, it’s not secondary and it’s not tertiary; it’s not warm and it’s not cool. Even printers know it: they ask you if you want to print in color or black and white. ‘Or’ stands for an option, you know, like one thing excludes the other. It’s not even in the rainbow.”

  “But if you put all colors together they come out black, so in fact you could say it’s the sum of all colors,” he contradicts me.

  “Oh, no it isn’t! Who told you something so foolish? If you mixed all the paint tubes of all the painters in the world, you would just get some sort of grey-brown so dark it may look like black, but it wouldn’t actually be black. Instead, the colors of the rainbow mixed together make white, like light, but I guess you wouldn’t know that since you never look at the sun and spend your days with the curtains closed,” I remind him harshly.

  “Holy smoke, Gil!” he interrupts me. “Are you going to be like this with all my answers?”

  “It depends on the answers you intend to give me,” I remark with an angelic smile.

  “Ok, green. My favorite color is green,” he suddenly changes his mind. “Ice cream flavor?”

  “Chocolate. I know, it’s a bit obvious, but I love certainties.”

  “Is that so? I thought you were a leap-in-the-dark kind of girl.”

  “I often find myself leaping into the dark, in fact, but not because I want to or have thought it over. It just happens. So when I can choose, I prefer sure things. I lost my only chance to learn to ride a bike because of a stupid leap in the dark.” Jared laughs and begins to eat while he waits for my question.

  “Cats or dogs?” it may sound stupid, but this choice can say a lot about a person.

  “Dogs,” he replies without even thinking it over. “What about you?”

  “The same. I like loyal and trustworthy animals.”

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “No, but I’d like one, and you?”

  “Same here,” he smiles. “Phobias?”

  “Aside from spiders?” I ask, trying to stifle a laugh.

  “Yes, aside from those huge and horrible beings too big to be killed without tarnishing oneself with a serious crime,” he makes fun of me. Ok, I should have expected it – I’m afraid my reaction that day will be carved in his memory for centuries to come.

  “I’m afraid of heights.”

  “And you climb ladders?” he asks, perplexed.

  “Not more than eight rungs.”

  “Your fear of heights is strange.”

  “Strange is interesting,” I remind him. “You? Phobias? Aside from funophobia, of course.” It’s my turn to taunt him a bit.

  “I’m not afraid of having fun,” he points out, slightly offended by my accusation.

  “Oh, really? I’m afraid that to believe that I’ll need a little more proof than your word.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “You don’t miss a thing,” I reply, amused.

  “You know I never refuse a challenge?” he warns me with a strange light in his eyes that I find intriguing.

  “Good for me.” I look away and gulp down my beer.

  “I don’t have any phobias. I’m just afraid, sometimes, that I’m not up to the challenge,” he finally replies. I look up, baffled by so much honesty. There’s no denying it; Jared is a good man, despite the impression he wants to give of himself.

  “It’s the fear of all responsible people.”

  “You’re too naïve,” is his comment, but I don’t know if this bothers him or if it’s a relief of some kind.

  “Lillian says so too, but I don’t see anything bad in trusting other people. If you don’t give them a chance, rarely they will surprise you.”

  He seems to think about it for a moment. “Or let you down,” he finishes off.

  “You’ve met too many bad people in your life, Jared, let me say so,” he seems a bit young to be so disenchanted.

  “I’m just a realist, and way less naïve than you are,” he observes enigmatically. I am silent for a few seconds, secretly hoping he will reveal what has
made him believe what he just told me, but he doesn’t speak, he just finishes eating the last piece of pizza left in the box.

  “Ok, change of subject. Girlfriends?” Jared isn’t expecting such a personal question and nearly chokes on the beer he is trying to swallow. Have I gone too far? Maybe it’s a bit early to pry.

  “Three,” he unexpectedly replies as soon as he manages to speak. “The first two in high school – with the first it lasted five months, with the other about a year – and the third in college – the first and only serious affair in my life.”

  “And is it still going on?” Hold your horses, Gil. What do you care if it’s still going on?

  “Hey, it’s my turn,” he protests with an amused smile. Caught red-handed. He likes to keep me hanging on. I’m ardently hoping he won’t notice the color of my cheeks, but considering the situation, what hope do I have that he’ll gloss over it? “Your boyfriends?” There, sure enough.

  “One, in high school. Nothing serious and it was over a long time ago, you needn’t waste another question.” Jared laughs. He’s noticed I’m on my back foot – I’ve never been able to hide my embarrassment – and I was the one who started this.

  “It ended two years ago. We understood we weren’t made for one another, we wanted different things from life.”

  “What did you want?” I ask him, too curious to refrain.

  “What I still want: stability. She preferred levity, and I haven’t been a frivolous person in a long time,” he explains in a detached tone.

  “Oh,” is all I can say.

  “Your greatest dream?” he raises his head, smiling once again. The more he does it, the more I discover the smile looks so good on his face I really don’t understand why he forsakes it so often.

  I think it over a moment before I reply. “To fly.” Jared is curious. “You know hang-gliders?” he nods. “I’d like to try one of those.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of heights?”

  “I am,” I confirm.

  “And how do you think you’ll manage a flight with a hang-glider?” he taunts me, increasingly amused.