Stronger

by Misty Provencher

  "Where you going, darlin'?" he asks. His excitement makes the fabric of his shorts dance. It's obscene, even for me. Mrs. Lowt's door flings open. She steps into the hall, her face wrinkled as she shoves her coke-bottles further up on the bridge of her nose.

  "It's Thanksgiving, Lydia! It's not the time for your sex games all over the halls!"

  "Hey," Mystery Man barks, "This ain't your business, lady. Go on and get back into your apartment."

  "Both these ladies live here," Aidan says from behind me. "It's you that needs to leave."

  "I don't think I asked for your input," Mystery Man says. He turns to me, his lip lifting in a sneer. "You sneaking away on me, Lydia?"

  My name, on his stale tongue, makes my stomach turn. Aidan steps to my side.

  "If a girl is sneaking away, then it's a pretty sure sign that you overstayed your welcome," he says. "How about you grab your clothes and get moving?"

  "I don't need your help, Mr. America. This is between me and her."

  "Last chance to grab your stuff." Aidan says, stepping in front of me.

  "Fuck you, buddy," Mystery Man says and in a blink, Aidan twists the guy into a full nelson and walks Mystery Man down the hall like a body puppet. He knocks the elevator button with his elbow, struggling to hang onto the guy as he bucks and shouts threats. The doors roll open and Aidan steps inside, still hanging onto the guy.

  As the doors roll closed, Aidan shouts to me, "Toss his clothes out your window. It's going to be cold out there!"

  The elevator doors finally seal on Mystery Man's cursing. Mrs. Lowt turns to me, shaking her head.

  "You see that the men are a problem, Lydia. You need to pick one. And not the one I don't like either, and not these men you bring home, but never see again. You've got a good looking man that lives right next door and you see what he just did. That's a man, Lydia. That's what you need."

  "I think you've got a crush on our neighbor, Mrs. Lowt."

  "I know a good one when I see him," she says. I laugh as I stride into my apartment and close the door. I've got some clothing to toss out my window.

  <<<<>>>>

  I don't watch Mystery Man pick up his clothes. I shut my window and throw on the first things I can find, because I owe Aidan both an apology and thanks for getting rid of the guy. Aidan knocks on my door only a moment later and when I open it, he smiles.

  "You owe me," he says. He's got a split lip.

  "Holy shit, he got you," I say. Aidan wipes away some blood with the side of his hand.

  "I let him. I figured if he got in a shot, he could leave with some dignity and wouldn't come back."

  "You didn't have to do that."

  "He looks worse."

  "Good."

  "Come on, then. Time to pay up." He jerks his head toward his apartment. I've never wanted to repay a debt so much. I follow him as if he's playing a flute.

  Once inside his apartment, I think he's going to turn to me, flatten my spine against the door, and rake kisses down my neck. He doesn't. I follow him into the kitchen and when he turns to me, he hands me a knife. I take it, confused.

  "You're going to help me get ready for dinner," he says. He pulls lettuce from the fridge and hands it to me, along with a bowl. "Everyone will be here in a couple hours, so I can use the help."

  To cover the shock, I take the lettuce and shove past him to the sink. "You have to wash lettuce. You can't just chop it up and toss it in a bowl."

  "That's why I wanted you here," he says. He chops vegetables and sticks them on a tray with room for dip in the center. The running water is the biggest sound in the room until he says, "You ever going to tell me who that guy was?"

  "No," I say. How am I supposed to tell him when I don't know myself? I'm sure Mystery Man's wallet went out the window with the rest of his clothes and that was probably my only chance at ever knowing his name. Unless he pops up at Modo's or at my apartment door again.

  "Alright," Aidan says. I shake the water off the lettuce and come around the counter, so I'm standing opposite him. He waits until I pick up the knife and start cutting, before he says, "Doesn't it bother you?"

  "What?"

  "Not knowing their names."

  "Nope," I say. The silence hangs there, separating the chopping sound of the knife blade as it hacks through the head of lettuce.

  "I've never met anyone like you, you know," Aidan says.

  "No?"

  "Most women want relationships. They want marriage, a house, kids. But not you. You're running as fast as you can in the other direction." He pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. I wait for him to ask why, but instead, he says, "You sure you're not a dude?"

  "Maybe I am." From my peripheral, I watch his eyes slide over me.

  "You sure don't look like one, but you do act like one."

  I shrug. "Yeah, well." Then, to change the subject, "This is going to be a great salad."

  "You can tell everyone you made it."

  "About that," I drawl, "I don't think I can make dinner tonight."

  "How come?"

  I hold up one finger.

  "I'll show you," I say, walking backward toward the door.

  "Where are you going? Don't think I won't bust down your door if you go into hiding. I need serious help here." He waves a carrot stick over the counter.

  "I'll be right back, I promise." I slip out of his apartment and into mine, grab one of the two bottles of wine I bought in case I went to his party, and return with it. I plunk it down on his counter.

  "This is why," I say.

  His eyes are on the bottle's label as I watch him swallow. He steps backward and goes to his cupboard. He takes down a juice glass and sets it down, like he's placing a bet, on the counter beside the bottle. His eyes are caught on the label.

  "You're right," he says, "it would probably be a bad idea, since they're struggling with it."

  "What about you? Are you struggling with it?" I ask. I watch him swallow again. Then he looks away and wipes his nose on the back edge of his hand.

  "Nope," he says.

  "Then you don't mind if I have a drink?"

  "Nope."

  I crack it open, even though neither of those nopes sounded very convincing. I'm not trying to test him or be cruel; the truth is, I need the drink. I'm all tensed up. I need to mellow out and get into the driver's seat during this conversation. Wine can usually take my edge off. Aidan's eyes flit around the room, back to the bottle, to me and then back to the bottle, to the vegetable tray in front of him. He frowns.

  "I could hide it in a travel mug, if you want," I say.

  "If you have to have it, do whatever it takes to make you comfortable coming," Aidan says, but the tiny muscles in his jaw flinch.

  "It wasn't for me. It was to make your friends comfortable with me being there."

  "You aren't the problem, Lydia. The alcohol is what would make them uncomfortable, not you."

  I swirl the glass and take a good, long drink. Aidan watches my throat and studies my lips like a jealous lover after I lower the glass.

  "Why is it so important to you that I show up?" I ask.

  "I don't want anyone spending Thanksgiving alone."

  "I'm not..."

  "Or with guys that I have to throw out of the apartment building," he amends. He frowns when I salute him with the wine glass.

  "I guess that's fair," I say.

  <<<<>>>>

  After watching me down a second glass, Aidan puts some distance between us. He stays on the other side of the kitchen, furthest from me.

  "It might be a good idea after all--to put your drink in a travel mug."

  "Yeah, I don't know. Wine in a travel mug? Maybe not my best idea."

  "Haven't you ever been addicted to anything?" he asks. His tone is a little desperate, his misery begging for a little company, I think.

  "Sure," I tell him. "Good 'N Plenty candy. But I learned to handle myself."

  He winces. "What I'm getting at is that my other guests ha
ven't."

  "And you want me to be considerate," I say. He smiles.

  "I'll make it worth your while."

  "Oh yeah?" My body goes on pilot, dropping my eyelids and lowering the timbre of my voice. "And how are you going to do that?"

  He glances at me and grabs a towel. He dries a bowl sitting beside the sink before he slides it across the counter to me with some tomatoes and cucumbers to cut for the salad. "Get chopping and if you're good, I'll tell you stories of everyone coming tonight, so you can get an idea of who they are."

  "Oh, I'm never good," I say with a leopard's gaze. It's my body's natural chain reaction to any flirtatious line that comes out of my mouth. My chin dips down while my eyes simultaneously look up at him. I know exactly what this does to a man, since I've done it a hundred times before. My predatory stare hits Aidan and he pauses with his chewable lower lip dropping open. His expression is so enchanting, the spell I was trying to cast seems to ricochet, and I'm no longer 100% sure of who is hypnotizing who.

  Thank God, he clears his throat and looks away. I return to the cucumbers in front of me too quickly and nearly hack off my thumb. Whatever magic that was, it was a little too close for comfort. I really have to remember that Aidan's not my chew toy, not my scratching post, not my signature brand of catnip. He's just a neighbor. That's all he is and that's how it's got to remain.

  "Leonard is my sponsor," he says, shaking me out of my spell. "He's got twenty-five years clean and sober. I think you'll like him. Lots of wisdom in that man."

  I'd bet that Leonard has a ponytail, wears sandals in the winter, and leases a permanent space at Boring Central.

  "Devon and Marlisa are coming," he adds. "You met them already. And my sister, Ila, will be here."

  "Cool name."

  "Cool girl," he says. "She's been clean for a year. Shane and Natalie might be late, but they're coming. He's not an alcoholic, by the way."

  "He's not?" I mull that one over. He must have just been out on a bender, the night he got with me.

  "No." He avoids my gaze as he grabs a cloth and wipes the counter. I used to work with Shane--I introduced him to Natalie. She's been sober for eight months."

  "She's a big fan of mine."

  "Don't take it personally. She's hates everybody. She's still having a hard time figuring out who she is, away from the bar."

  I laugh, trying to capture his eyes again, but it doesn't work. "At least we can bond on that. I'm not sure I could recognize myself in the line-up of blondes at Modo's either. The dreads help."

  "She could learn a lot from your confidence," he says. Confidence. I almost snort. He's still not looking at me, so I figure I should go ahead and try to escort the elephant out of the room.

  "So what made you quit drinking?"

  He sighs, leans his hips against the counter. "I wanted to," he says and his eyes finally find mine. "Have you ever wanted to do something so badly that you knew there was no way you would fail? That's what happened to me. I got to the point of being so damn miserable and desperate that I would've been happy to die from withdrawals, rather than take another drink. Have you ever wanted anything that bad?"

  I shake my head. This conversation, his eyes--it's all getting a little too intense. "No."

  "Never?"

  I scramble for a memory that will diffuse the pressure. "Well, there was one time...but it's stupid, compared to what we're talking about."

  "Ok," he shrugs, "so let it be stupid. Tell me anyway."

  "Alright," I say, dusting off my hands. "I was in ninth grade, and Maria Telecki and I had a gym class together. Maria was a bitch and so was I, but then, Maria's boyfriend, Carl--he was a senior--dumped her and asked me to go with him to the Prom.

  "That afternoon, Maria bet me, in front of the whole lunchroom, that I couldn't beat her ass in a long distance race. If I won, I told her I wanted this silver, butterfly necklace she wore every day to school. I knew that if I got it from her, it would knock Maria off her high horse. But if I lost, she wanted me to swear that I wouldn't go to Prom with her guy. So, Maria and I both entered the annual 5K run in town.

  "I didn't give a shit about Carl. I wanted that damn necklace and wanted it even more in the days leading up to the race, because Maria kept taunting me with it. She'd dangle it off her finger at me whenever she was around. I was ready to puke up my lungs to get that necklace."

  Aidan reaches over the bar and brushes my dreads away from my naked collarbone. "And you're not still wearing your prize to this day?"

  I shake my head. "I didn't get it. I was ready to puke up my lungs, but the day of the race...what can I say? Maria Telecki beat me. She was better."

  "Doubtful," Aidan says. "She probably caught you on an off day."

  "She could've raced me any day and won. I never bothered to train, but she did and she was fast." I lean back on the counter. "I stuck to my word though. I puked up my guts at the finish line and Maria took pictures to prove it."

  "And you didn't go to Prom."

  "No. Carl and I went to a motel party that night instead. That's the night I met my husband."

  Aidan laughs. "Ahhh...slick. Two birds and one stone."

  "Yeah, well." I shrug with one shoulder. "Shit happens."

  "So you know what it's like to want something, but you don't know what it's like to do everything you can and actually succeed."

  I feel this getting too preachy for my tastes. I reach for my wine glass.

  "Meh," I say. "Success is overrated."

  As I bring the glass to my mouth, Aidan steps forward and wraps his hand around mine. His face is distorted through the glass until I lower it.

  "No more, okay?" He almost whispers it.

  "It's really getting to you that I'm drinking?"

  "No, it's really bothering me that you're trying to glue your pieces back together with wine." The pressure of his hand around mine is gentle. The bottom of the glass tinks as it meets the counter. "Wine doesn't work for shit as glue, Lydia."

  The muscles in my cheeks suddenly go stiff, as I struggle to hold my grin in place. I see what he's doing and it's exactly what he said he wouldn't. My cheeks blaze with the humiliation as I push away from the counter.

  "I've got to run," I say.

  "Interesting choice of words." His expression is all deep and introspective and full of fucking pity. I pick up the wine glass and toss whatever's left in his face.

  "Oh, sorry," I say. "It slipped."

  He wipes it away slowly with his sleeve. I head for the door.

  "Wait," he says, following after me. I spin on a heel to face him again.

  "Just because I like a little wine, it doesn't make me an alcoholic, Aidan! That's your problem, not mine. So, if you need to be somebody's savior, then go find someone with an actual problem first!"

  I make for the door again, but he grabs my arm. I jerk loose and he steps back.

  "I'm sorry, Lydia. You're right. It's not my business and I shouldn't have said anything."

  "Now that's an interesting choice of words," I snap. "You shouldn't have said anything--because it made me angry? Or because you think it's true?"

  "It was just a stupid thing to say."

  "But which one is it?"

  "The stupid one. Can we start over?" he says and he grins. It's every bit as charming and disarming as he means it to be, but he just made me feel like a fucking, drunk loser. He can't do that.

  "I'll see you later," I say as I slip out the door.

  "Dinner's at five," he says, but the hopefulness in his voice wilts, just like the damned friendship we'd just started to grow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FEASTING ON FRIENDS

  I hear his guests as they show up. The trill of a women’s voices, greeting each other with "Happy Thanksgiving!" and the deep gravel of the men as they greet one another. I wonder if Aidan realizes just how thin the walls are between our apartments.

  Since I do, I tiptoe around and even wince when the lip of what was going to be m
y party-wine bottle hits the edge of my waiting glass with a sharp tink. I don't feel like going to Modo's anymore, but I don't want Aidan coming over to invite me again either. All I want to do is sit on the floor near the heat vent, where the voices from next door blow through a little clearer.

  I don't know why I give a shit about listening to their conversations about the weather and construction, or pie recipes and turkey timing...but I do. I want to hear Aidan's laugh, even if it is a little muffled. I want to be sure no one's talking about me, or if they are, I want to be sure it's the right person and that he's saying the right things.

  There is talk of the football game, the food Aidan's serving, complaints about work and the snow. They discuss the prices of lattes and new TVs, debate public transportation policies, quote some movie they've seen. And then comes the conversation I've been listening for.

  "Where's your neighbor?" a woman asks. Curious, hopeful--sounds like Aidan's sister.

  "She was here earlier, but she had some things to do," Aidan says.

  "She's not coming back?"

  "She knows dinner's at five," he says and his tone comes through the wall like he's looking right at me. A guilty shiver speeds through my stomach.

  "It's almost five now," someone else says.

  "I better pull out the turkey then." Aidan says and the conversation is dropped. They talk about setting the table and who wants water and where everyone's going to sit.

  I watch the digital clock on the shelf in my living room as it flashes through the minutes. It's meant for the bedroom, but it got moved out here at some point and I've never thought much about moving it back. I don't live by a clock. I live by calls from Des and measure my days in trips to the liquor store.

  I listen as the chairs next door scrape as everyone sits down for dinner. Aidan doesn't come knocking and I can't tell if I'm relieved or just lonely. I hear the clink of silverware, the laughter, the small talk. With my temple against the wall, I consider downing the last swallow in my wine glass, sucking up my pride, and going next door. And then I hear my name.