Are You Mine?

by N. K. Smith

  “I don’t. . .I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you do, and yes, you were.”

  Saige’s chin quivers, and an expression crosses her face that makes me so sad it physically hurts inside, but then she looks down at her lap and takes away my opportunity to study her pain. I slide my hands down to her shoulders instead of forcing her head back up. Saige’s voice is quiet when she speaks. “I guess I just want to be the one—”

  “Who leaves this time?”

  Saige looks up at me again, and I know I’m right. “I don’t mean to be like this,” she says. “Myka says I sabotage all the good things in my life, but it’s just easier than getting involved.”

  “And letting someone love you?”

  “Yeah.”

  I add, “And loving them back?”

  This time, she doesn’t say anything, just nods. I don’t want the whole day to be weighed down by all of this, so I have to find something to say to change the subject. I take her hands again and pull her up as I stand. “Let’s walk this path again. Maybe there’s a flower we missed.”

  Once we’re back on the paved path, her hand in mine, I ask, “Do you know what word is always spelled incorrectly in the dictionary?”

  Although I think she’s only half paying attention, she considers the question. She must not remember that she’s answered this once before. “How can a word always be spelled wrong in the dictionary? I’m pretty sure they employ people to catch—”

  “Come on, Saigey, you’re a smart girl. I didn’t say it was spelled wrong, although there’s always a word that’s spelled wrong too.”

  She knits her eyebrow together in concentration, which means she’s not thinking about anything other than the question. Saige has moved on from her self-sabotage and inclination to break our relationship off.

  Exactly what I want.

  The moment the answer comes to her is a moment of pure beauty. The muscles in her face relax, her lips part as she takes a breath, and those beautiful hazel eyes lock with mine. “That’s a good one.”

  “A good one what?” I say, playing dumb. “Oh, did you figure it out?”

  “Yes. The word that’s always spelled incorrectly is incorrectly.”

  “Ding, ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” I pick Saige up and swing her around, and when our bodies stop turning, I kiss her before letting her feet hit the ground. “I love you, Saige.”

  She looks at her feet against the path but then gazes back up at me. “I love you too, Fox.”

  ***

  The day I go back to work isn’t a great one. Not only do I find myself thinking almost exclusively about Saige and wanting to be with her, but I find that I’m demoted back to being a picker. I don’t lose any money per hour, but Mr. Morgan has decided that being a packer is a privilege I no longer have.

  Since I started working at both jobs, the book warehouse and the Burger Joint, the warehouse has always been my favorite, especially when I’d gotten the news I didn’t have to roam around the massive place singing my ABCs to figure out where the next item on my list is located.

  Now, I’m back to being a picker; back to walking around the mile-wide warehouse and hopefully grabbing the right books to fill the order.

  “Tough break, kid,” Jason says, then punches me on the shoulder. “But at least we can shoot the shit more without the boss glaring at us.”

  I toss him a smile, but he doesn’t understand why this isn’t a great thing to have happened. “Do you still go behind the QR row for extra breaks?”

  “Shhhh!” he says, finger to his lips as he sweeps his eyes from side to side. “Don’t give it away. Not many people know about it, but those of us who do, keep it quiet.”

  “Okay,” I say in an exaggerated whisper as I grab my invoice and scan the jumble of letters. “I guess we’d better get started.”

  Jason laughs, grabs my sheet, tosses it onto my cart, and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Been too long, Fox. Don’t gotta get straight to it. First, we gotta get some coffee, maybe eat a donut or two, talk about the baseball game, walk past the nudie books and stare at some—”

  “Yeah, I guess I forgot about all that,” I say, intentionally interrupting. Most of the erotica books are in the same place. It’s not like we have a lot of call for those types of novels during back to school, but it’s a favorite hang-out for some of the guys. To be honest, it always made me a bit uncomfortable. It’s not that I have anything against sex or that I don’t like the subject, but dudes reading snippets of erotic novels made for women to other dudes just seems weird.

  I take the invoice again. Even if I don’t start right away, it’s going to take some time to make all the letters go in their proper spots and create a word, much less a book title. It’s so much easier just to verify that others have selected the correct book.

  I’m not one to panic, but I feel a familiar queasiness rising within me. It’s the same feeling I used to get before big tests or an essay assignment.

  It’s going to be a long day, and I’m not sure simple thoughts of Saige will be able to get me through it.

  Chapter 19

  Saige

  Since coming back from Chicago, I spend more time than usual with Fox. It seems like he’s not working as much as he had been. His nighttime shifts at the restaurant are constant; it’s the ones at the warehouse that have diminished. He hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t asked mainly because I’m too grateful to have him around to jinx it.

  What he said two weeks ago at the park was almost completely accurate, but I’m not excited about showing weakness to anyone, so of course I denied it all. I’m sure I’m supposed to let him know all the time how much he means to me, but there’s something within holding me back. It’s like if he knows how much I love getting phone calls from him, he’ll use it against me. If I tell him that my whole day revolves around thinking about him now, he’ll understand the power he has and use it in evil ways.

  I know that’s ridiculous. I know it’s stupid.

  But still.

  Tonight, we’re presenting “Myka’s Metal Valentine” to Myka and Val. I was able to get it to a printer. The binding, the color, the quality of the print are out of this world. It came out perfect, if you ask me. Fox and I haven’t told them we’re finished, so they’re out in the living room smoking a little pot while Fox and I finish dinner.

  Yeah, we’re making dinner for our friends. Apparently we’ve moved into some kind of adult domestic relationship. It’s scary as hell because I can imagine us in our late twenties doing this very thing, hosting gatherings and preparing finger foods and elaborate entrees. It’s weird.

  This whole night was Fox’s idea. If it were up to me, we’d stay in alone all the time, but he’s a social being, so he needs more interaction than I do. Besides, it’s just the same friends I’ve had for years. Not really a stretch for me.

  As we take plates of food out to the living room, Fox glances behind him at me. He’s loving this stuff, and as he pauses just for a moment, he winks at me. That simple gesture causes a flurry of activity inside my body and mind. There’s the flutter in my belly, the sharp voice in my mind telling me this is wrong, my heart starts thumping out of control, my limbs feel weak. There are soft words that contrast with the other voice floating through my mind; the voice belongs to the frightened little girl within worrying about how long this can last—when he, too, is going to leave.

  Val and Myka are finished smoking the joint Myka brought by the time we put the food on the coffee table, which is good because just the residual smell makes me rethink this whole sober living thing. Well, not really. It’s been an easy transition to make, and while I think my anxiety level would be lowered, I still like the pride I feel and the pride Fox has because I abstain.

  Of course, Myka and Val, chow down, while Fox and I eat slowly. Again, there’s something special knowing that both of us are sober. It’s like we have our own little club and, at least for tonight, it’s exclusive.

 
Once the food is gone, Fox gets up to change the music, and I get up to grab the copies of our graphic novel. I had four made, one for each of us. The original is safe both digitally and in hard copy in a box in my closet.

  “You both wanted a steampunk novel about the rebellion of a few good soldiers and civilians against the evil regime of Victorian dictators, so Fox and I present to you, Myka’s Metal Valentine.”

  “Oh, my God. No way!” Myka immediately sits up straighter. She’s still high, but her narrowed focus is on the books in my hands.

  I give one to her and one to Val, then sit back down to watch their reactions. Fox sits on the arm of my chair, absently twirling a strand of my hair between his fingers.

  “You drew all this?” Val asks Fox. I crane my neck to see Fox’s reaction, but all he does is nod with that charming grin on his face. “Oh, man, I mean, Saige said you had talent, but damn.” Val flips through a few more pages. “You guys could sell this. I mean, really sell it.”

  I scoff at the thought. “You haven’t read it yet. Once you get past the magnificence of Fox’s ink, you’ll understand kickass art can’t make up for a poor story.”

  “I call bullshit,” Myka says. “Say what you want, but I know you’re a good storyteller. I’ve read your works-in-progress, and they’re great, so I know this will be. Plus,” she says as she turns to look at Valentine, “we’re the stars, so how could it not rock?”

  ***

  Valentine and Myka ooh and aah over the graphic novel for another two hours before heading off into the night to do whatever steampunk chicks and new aged goth guys do together. After cleaning up the living room, Fox and I sit down on the couch. We haven’t spoken in a half hour. I’m not sure what he’s thinking about, but I’m trying not to think about anything. I just sit and enjoy the sensation of his arm around my shoulders, the feel of his chest against half of my back, the slight tingle the tips of his fingers make against the follicles of my hair as he threads his fingers through it.

  “I think that was a success,” he finally says. “They seemed to enjoy it.”

  “They’re probably just shocked I finally finished something.”

  “The book is awesome,” he says with confidence, shaking my body with his for emphasis. “You can say what you want about the writing, but I know it’s good.”

  I love the compliment and try to keep the negative voice in my head quiet, but Fox hasn’t read the book. I’ve read each part to him, but I haven’t read the whole book in order to him.

  It must be such a bummer not to be able to read well. It doesn’t seem like it’s fair for something so major to be such a chore. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t just pick up a book and read with ease; or pick up a pen and paper and write out whatever is on my mind.

  I know Fox has his art, and through it he can express himself, but written language is the dominant form of communication after verbal.

  He kisses the top of my head and breaks my line of thought. I twist around and rise onto my knees. “Will you stay the night?” I can feel the heat flood my cheeks. It’s not like it’d be the first time he’s slept over, and it’s not the first time we’ve had sex, but there’s something strange about asking for it. Something vulnerable that makes me feel a little ashamed.

  I’m not ashamed of our relationship. I’m not ashamed of having sex. I think I’m ashamed of wanting him. Of needing him.

  Somehow I just know waking up with him tomorrow morning will make the whole day better. He lightens my mood and my outlook without doing anything other than being present. Fox is like an infusion of energy into my fatigued life. He’s a swift kick in the ass to my unmotivated self, and a hit of the most powerful drug of positivity when I’m at my most negative.

  As much as I don’t particularly care for giving up control, I seem helpless to do anything else but hand it to him. Whether he stays and fills my heart or if he leaves, I am only able to experience the ride of emotions that goes with it.

  ***

  “That young man of yours is very polite, isn’t he?”

  I look up at my grandmother’s words. She showed up only an hour after Fox left for work, bearing breakfast. “He is,” I say in agreement, then fold my hands together in my lap. I’m already on the defensive, even though she hasn’t said or done anything to put me on edge.

  “So outgoing and lively.”

  “Yes,” I agree again, but I know her words are directed toward me. Fox is what I am not. “He’s perfect, really.”

  Gramma sets her coffee cup down on the table and pushes her lips up into a smile. “I’ve never seen you so taken with a young man.”

  This would not sound like a negative remark coming from anyone else, but from my grandmother, the words sting me, as if she’s saying that I’ve never been normal enough to have a boyfriend before. I won’t give her the satisfaction by reacting like a child about it, but I can’t help myself from asking, “I guess my mom probably had a lot of boyfriends, huh? Probably a lot of perfect young men who treated her like a princess, right?”

  At the mention of my mother, Gramma looks out the window next to the kitchen table. I hate the pain I see in her profile. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know why I did except for that it’s always been so hard to get information out of her. Maybe subconsciously, I thought this was too good of an opportunity to give up hoping to glean a little more knowledge about my mother. I guess I don’t care if I’m compared to her right now, so long as I can understand the woman I came from better.

  “Yes, your mother dated many boys in high school. Most of them wanted her to date them exclusively, however, your mother was diplomatic in her denial of them. She said she was too young to get too involved with one person, but I believe your mother thrived on experience and none of those boys were strong enough to dampen her adventurous spirit.”

  “Until my dad?”

  A smile overtakes her face, and the sight of it causes my breath to catch for a moment. “Your father had an adventurous spirit as well, but it was different from your mother’s. As you know, they met in college, and that’s a time when people try on many different personas to figure out which one they really are.” Gramma stops, sips her coffee, and finally looks at me again. “I expect your father emerged from the womb exactly as the same person he was on the day he died.”

  It’s me who looks away now. Intellectually, I know my dad’s dead—killed in action—but I hate when it’s mentioned, especially in such a casual way by my grandmother.

  “He was a man of extraordinary drive. He knew exactly what he wanted out of life, whereas your mother toyed around with various versions of herself until she found one that fit. But even though he was much more settled than she, your mother found him captivating. While on one hand, he never waivered in his resolve to finish his degree and continue onto a military career, he was artistic. She once said he could sit and stare at a flower for hours just to figure out how to draw it perfectly.”

  I think of Fox and the way he views the world, but I don’t know if he even has to look at a flower for more than a second to draw it. It seems like the talent flows, as if born within him, and no study is necessary for Fox to get it right.

  My grandmother doesn’t continue, but I want to hear more. I might not be the most daring or bold person on the planet, but already Fox and I have had great adventures together. Maybe I’m more like my mother than both Gramma and I think. “You said they both were adventurous. What types of exciting stuff did they do together?”

  There is no longer a smile on her face as she wraps both hands around the coffee cup and stares out at the window. “She kept a diary of their short journey through life together. I’ve never opened it.”

  I widen my eyes and slacken my jaw. “What?” It feels like I’ve ran a marathon, and all of the sudden my senses sharpen. I can’t control the waves of emotion rolling within me. “What?” I ask again. “She kept a journal? Why didn’t you ever tell me that? Why didn’t you ever share it with m
e?”

  My grandmother’s eyes have cooled, and I already know she’s sealed herself off from feeling any of my anger. “Saige, don’t yell. It’s unbecoming of a lady.”

  As uncomfortable as it makes me to confront her, the rage within drives me onward. “I’ll yell if I want to!” I point to the doorway out of the kitchen. “Go home and get it! Go get her journal and give it to me.”

  “It’s packed away.”

  “I don’t care. Go get it. I should have it. I’m her daughter; it belongs to me!”

  Something settles over my grandmother to make her eyes water. Whatever it is, it blankets me as well because all the fire within me snuffs out. I drop my hand to the table. The impact sloshes my coffee around in its cup. “Please?”

  “Saige, I didn’t give it to you because I thought you too young to handle the thoughts and actions of a college co-ed. I don’t know what’s within the pages, but I—”

  “I’m old enough now. There’s nothing I’ll read that will shock me, Gramma. You had my mom for years. You got to experience every little bit of her life, and all I got was five years I can barely remember. You know what she sounded like when she cried, when she laughed, when she sighed, and when she yelled. You’ve seen all of her smiles and witnessed her emotions. You have memories of her, and I have none. All I have are pictures. Little moments in time trapped with fading ink on shiny paper. I want to know who my mom was!”

  I can tell I’ve rattled my grandmother by the way she rubs her hands together. I don’t want to let the momentum I’ve built go, but I don’t know what else to say. The fact that I have to convince her to give me my mother’s written thoughts is absurd, and I hate my grandmother for it.

  “I was going to give it to you,” she says in a feeble voice. I’ve never heard her sound so weak before. “I just thought you were too young, so I put it away and haven’t thought about it in years.”

  “I’m not too young now,” I remind her, this time softly. She probably never read it because she fears what my mother actually thought of her. I bet my mother hated her at times too. How painful would it be to read the angry words of your dead daughter? “Gramma, please?”