These Things About Us

by Laura Beege

  “I’m sorry.”

  I whirled around, clutching wrinkled, sweaty shirts in both hands. Trace had followed me. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I just apologized.”

  “That’s not helping. I don’t want you to apologize. I don’t want anyone to see the tattoo, or ask about the tattoo or talk about the tattoo. I just want my big blue sweater but I can’t find it. So, just leave me alone!” I turned away from him, before he could see that my eyes were starting to glaze over with tears.

  His distancing steps were sign enough for me to keep tossing clothes around on my bed until I reached the bottom of the suitcase. I started throwing everything back in, double-checking every piece I picked up, when a neatly folded grey shirt was placed on top of my pile.

  “It should be big on you, but I couldn’t find a blue one,” Trace said, then quickly grabbed the rest of my strayed clothes and dumped them in the bag.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to right a wrong. Just trying to…” He trailed off.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. Can’t you just take the bloody shirt and shut up?” Trace threw his hands up and stormed off, leaving me with the choice between looking for my dirty shirt and accepting his clean one. The sooner the tattoo would be covered up, the better.

  After shrugging into his sweater, I couldn’t just take a step back to escape Trace’s scent anymore. The source of the smell clung to my shoulders. The whole night, no matter how much spilled beer I wiped up or how strong the whiskey on my tray reeked, the shirt kept tingling my nose with that unfairly nice smell. I wished I didn’t notice it because, frankly, if a nice guy smelled that good, I wouldn’t hesitate to make the first step and ask him out first chance I got. But I did notice and I wanted to slap myself for it.

  Once the pub closed, I stood outside with Sierra, who was on her third cigarette in 15 minutes, and waited for Marcus to pick her up. They were going to some late night party and it had taken me half of our shift to convince her I would be staying home.

  “So, is it safe to ask why you went bonkers about the tattoo thing or are you going to rip my head off?” Sierra asked and inhaled through her cigarette, the end lighting up like an oversized orange firefly.

  “Probably the latter.” I wrapped my arms around my mid to keep the cold from seeping deeper into my body.

  “Then just let me give you a piece of advice on a completely different topic, Darling. If Trace Baker shows interest in you, you turn him the fuck down. I’ve seen too many girls walking in here, thinking they can be the one to fix him.”

  “God, Sierra, there’s no interest there. On neither side. He hates me and does everything in his power to keep me from crying to his dad about what an asshole he is.”

  “Right. So you’re not sniffing his shirt for the ten thousandth time right now?”

  I glanced down to find I had actually been holding the right sleeve up to my face, breathing him in once again. “I just think he smells good. But if it makes you feel better, in my opinion he’s beyond repair, has mood swings bordering on psycho, and I would never let someone like that into my life again.”

  A car rattled around the corner and we both stared at the moving headlights in silence until it stopped right in front of The Dirty Dungeon. That thing was more dents and rust than car. “Sounds like you’ve been burned before.” Sierra flicked the stump to the ground and opened the door to the passenger side. With the inside lights flickering on, I could see Marcus sitting behind the wheel. He waved his hello and so did I, choosing not to comment Sierra’s remark. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Yeah, right,” I breathed, remembering the many times I’d seen her ogling Trace’s behind. “See you tomorrow!”

  Walking back inside, I wished Sierra was still standing next to me. As if to prove my point, Trace was leaning against the bar with a tall punk rock chick sporting a platinum pixie cut right beside him, her eyes never leaving his lips. Meanwhile my eyes hung on her barely-there hot pants. God, her legs poking out of them were so skinny I wanted to force feed the girl.

  “Sleep tight, Trace,” I said and walked past them.

  Someone that skinny couldn’t be sporty enough to have long, sweaty, exhausting sex, right? She’d probably collapse from dehydration first. Maybe what she couldn’t do stamina-wise, she made up for with flexibility. I wasn’t flexible at all. I could hardly close a bra behind my back. Which didn’t mean I was a total loser in bed. I was good with my… Whoa. What was I even doing, comparing myself to Trace’s sexfriend? Ugh, Sierra was messing with my head.

  I left my apron behind the bar, meaning to shoot only a short glance over my shoulder before heading upstairs but Trace was staring straight at me. Even his girlfriend had noticed and gave me the stink eye like I was to blame for the shift of his attention. Maybe I was. A big part of me started worrying that I’d done something to piss him off and he was trying to kill me by shooting invisible daggers from his eyes, but then there was this other part, much smaller and far less realistic than invisible daggers, that failed to ignore Sierra and tried to figure out if there was any possibility that Trace had gone from being disgusted by me to being interested in me.

  Who was I kidding? He turned back to the blonde and picked up the conversation again.

  Third option: Maybe I had something stuck to my back and that was what he’d been staring at.

  Ten

  I still had to wrap my head around the fact that I was practically living in Trace’s shirt. As long as my mind shut up about it, I could enjoy how big and cozy it was, how it fell to the middle of my thighs and how the sleeves were so long it took some serious digging to find my hands. As soon as my thoughts rose to life, however, it seemed like the worst idea to spend yet another minute snuggled into the soft fabric. Trace was confusing enough on his own, completely nuts the one second, sort of sweet the next, it didn’t help that I was contributing to this miserable confusion by allowing myself to become comfortable in his clothes and breathing his scent like I was stuck underwater and his smell was my oxygen.

  First thing in the morning, still in my PJs – well my shorts and Trace’s shirt -, I muted my thoughts and carried my entire suitcase with all its contents to the laundry room in the basement. The sooner I had the entirety of my wardrobe back, the better. The laundry room was the most dungeon-ist thing about the building with its low ceilings, the bare walls and the cold air biting your skin, but it was still just a laundry room. An island of three washers and three dryers stood in the center and another washer stood discarded in the corner, probably broken.

  I sorted through my clothes. If I hadn’t spent the last few months before coming here learning all about living on my own, I would probably still be waiting for Regina – who had been our housemaid before we lost the house and the help – to take care of my dirty laundry.

  I fed two washers with coins and clothes, when I heard someone on the stairs. Someone who would see me in a men’s shirt that was longer than my shorts. Way to go, Tony, make everyone think you’re a tramp. Served me just right for switching my healthy conscience off.

  “There you are,” Wes grinned and jumped down the last couple of steps. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Someone lifted a giant weight off my chest and I took a deep breath, never having been more grateful for Wesley’s easy smile. “Hi,” I sighed. “What’s up?”

  “What are you doing today?”

  I could have told him the truth: Trying very hard not to think about why I liked this shirt and its smell so much, trying even harder not to make a call to a certain number that could lead me to my mom or give me away as the thief of Sabrina’s phone. Instead I said, “Nothing. Waiting for my laundry, I guess.”

  “Okay, and tomorrow?”

  “That’s what you came here for? To ask about my plans for the rest of the week?”

  For the first time since I came here, Wesley lo
oked as if I’d stepped on his toes. But the pained expression was ironed from his face pretty quickly and he just scratched his chin. “There’s this thing tomorrow…”

  “That’s very vague.”

  “Look, I get it if you don’t want to go. I don’t really want to go either.”

  “Spit it out, Wes.” I tried my most encouraging smile and zipped the empty suitcase shut. “The worst thing that can happen is that I say no.”

  “That’s actually what I’m afraid of. Trace never asks anyone to come see him sing, so it’s sort of a big deal that he wants you to come.”

  “He sings?” Lyrics, keyboard, guitars and now singing – that guy was some sort of Mozart. “Wait. He told you to invite me for him? If he wants me to come anywhere he has to ask himself.” Not that I wasn’t intrigued by the idea of hearing his songs, I just thought it was common courtesy to extend invitations in person. I lived right next-door to him, for God’s sake, no messenger needed.

  Wesley’s head dropped back and he let out a short moan. “You are both way too stubborn. Just say yes, please.”

  “Okay, but just because you said please.” And because I had a feeling that Trace wouldn’t ask – even indirectly so – again anytime soon if I made this harder than it had to be. Plus, it gave me a little more time away from the telephone number issue.

  “Thank you.” His whole body relaxed. I hadn’t realized it meant so much to him that I listened to Trace.

  “I’m not doing you a favor, Wes. I’m actually really curious about his music.”

  He lifted his shoulders and dropped his gaze to the suitcase in my hands. “So… Anything new about your mum?”

  “Uhm…” I didn’t want to explain to him how I got that other phone number, so again, I lied, “Not really. But thanks for printing the pictures. That was really cool.” They were now safely tucked into the shoe box I kept the camera in, too.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As I headed for the stairs, Wesley’s hand folded on top of mine and he gently pulled the empty suitcase out of my hold. “Thanks,” I said and watched as he carried my stuff upstairs, completely fine with it. Either he was the nicest person to have walked the face of earth in a long time, or he thought he owed me one for agreeing to go to that music thing of Trace’s. Or maybe he just pitied me because I was the poor little girl who lost her mom. I wasn’t entirely sure which.

  “There’s just one more thing,” he sighed.

  “Uh-oh.” One more thing was always the code for being put through a whole lot of trouble. Maybe I had to start paying rent. Or maybe his dad had found out about our fake one night stand and I was about to be kicked to the curb.

  “I have classes until eight, which means we can’t go together. I’m heading straight for the pub - The Fat Fisherman - afterwards. Think you can find your way there if I give you the address and the bus stop?”

  I was so not going to brave the bus again and I was certain the cabbies still ripped me off every time they heard my American accent, but I’d have to choose either if I wanted to go. They were right. Curiosity killed the cat. I shouldn’t be this curious about Trace. Scratch that. Trace’s music. I was just curious about his music.

  I was so curious that on Tuesday night, I pulled myself together and stepped onto a red beast of public transport. The Fat Fisherman, the pub Trace was going to sing at, was only halfway across town. I could change busses twice without getting lost. Or so I thought. Victoria Station, apparently, was the station for every single means of public transport that stopped in London. The tall red and grey building and its clock on top almost seemed to laugh at silly, small me who didn’t have a clue where to go. I tried to ignore that I was about to run late and asked around until finally someone pointed me to an information cube where I got myself a map of London including the directions of the bus and subway lines.

  By the time I’d figured out the map and the way to go, the sky was turning from grey to dark blue with only a slight yellow glimmer above the sharp rooftops of downtown London. I boarded the bus and fell into a seat at the very front where I could easily tell if I had managed to take the wrong line once again. I compared the names of the bus stops on my map to the ones being murmured through the speakers.

  I had done it. I had taken the right freaking bus. I was so close to squealing in joy, I had to bite my lower lip to keep myself together. And, just like Wes had promised, the Fat Fisherman was waiting for me just across the street from the bus stop. I’d found the way all by myself, without having to ask a million people. Without a driver who stopped at whichever address I gave him.

  I texted Wesley that I was going inside now, expecting him to tell me where he was sitting. Instead I pushed through the doors, had my ears blasted off by some rock band and my shoulder crushed by a drunk guy toppling out the pub when my phone buzzed with a text.

  He wouldn’t come.

  Wesley was leaving me alone because he was stuck with a ‘heartbroken friend.’ And that left me stuck all by myself. I’d just take a cab back. Trace might take it the wrong way and stop speaking to me altogether but I’d take that over being a tiny girl all alone in a loud pub.

  I was on the verge of turning on my heels when my eyes skimmed over the vinyl records taped to the bright orange walls, past the turquoise-painted bar and landed on the three people responsible for the noise coming through the speakers. A girl with spiky black hair on the drums, a very bald and lanky guy on the bass and then there was Trace. In the front. My chest tightened at the sight. His eyes were closed as he gripped the microphone with both hands. Sweat was pearling off his hair and his throaty voice poured into the microphone like a mix of syrup and nails. Perfectly imperfect. The guitar slung around his shoulder moved with every heavy breath he took and whenever he balanced his shoulders differently for the next line of the song. It wasn’t a song I recognized, but a subject I knew all too well. Being abandoned. I didn’t catch every word, sometimes Trace’s voice turned into a deep drawl and then a few moments later it was so full of anger you could hear every syllable. Seeing him like this was mesmerizing. Not a single time I talked to him had he let his guard down this far, letting every bit of emotion run freely through his body, not even when he’d been drunk.

  And just like that he’d made it impossible to leave.

  The heavy air already stuck to my skin and my throat and pressed down on my chest. It took about two songs to wiggle through the crowded room and get a bartender to notice me, another song to scream my order at him and pay for my coke without being trampled over which, eventually, left me with only one more song to listen to and watch Trace slide his fingers up and down the guitar, almost stroking it while the ballad grew mellow and quiet until at the very end only his voice was audible as he whispered the last line from the chorus, “I can’t hear you anymore.”

  The crowd surrounding the stage erupted in cheers but Trace didn’t spare them a single moment. He jogged off to the side and I lost sight of him. My stomach dropped. I was alone once again. Not that I had Trace to keep me company before but caught up in the music I’d forgotten all about the people around me chugging their beers and wearing lazy grins. You’d think after standing on the other side of a bar for a couple of weeks, I’d have to be less nervous about this kind of environment. Not so much.

  I would find Trace, thank him for inviting me, tell him his music is pretty awesome and then get back home as quickly as possible. Clenching my hand tighter around the glass, I pushed through the people blocking my way towards the stage. Although his band stood together with two other guys I didn’t recognize, I joined their little circle. Being the odd girl out in a small group seemed better than being the lonely girl in the middle of a crowd. Trace was staring at the beer bottle in his hands while one of his friends shouted something about a party in his ear.

  It took a few moments for the first guy to notice me and when he did he nudged me in the side. “Isn’t that a smashing bloody surprise?! How’s life treating you?” he asked
in a thick accent, almost too British to understand.

  “Uhm…okay, I guess. And you?” I replied. By now I should be used to all the strange people, but this guy’s blue-dyed eyebrows – matching his blue undercut – shot upwards at my reply as if it was the weirdest thing that I returned his question.

  “I am superb. Are you-“

  He was cut off by Trace’s sharp voice. “What the fuck do you want?”

  Leave it to Trace to put you in the very uncomfortable position of the center of attention. Four irritated pairs of eyes, plus his angry one lay on me, awaiting my reply. “I just thought I should probably tell you that I liked your music but I’m currently reconsidering.” I tried shooting the other two members of his band smiles, but Trace blocked my view. He shoved his bottle at the blue-haired guy, grabbed my shoulders and backed me out of the group. For a moment, all I could see was his sweaty shirt stretched over his chest.

  “You have to leave,” he said and twisted his neck to look back at his friends, putting the black-inked spider on full display for me. It looked like it was about to sink its teeth into his artery.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he hissed, barely audible over the record now blasting from the speakers.

  He was kicking me out. Had I missed something? Last time I checked Wes had gone out of his way to make sure I accepted his invitation to come here. “I can’t believe you…” I shrieked and dug my nails into my palm to pull myself together. “You’re such a, such a giant, stupid…” I stopped right there because I didn’t want to lose my composure over his attitude again.

  I clonked my glass down on the closest table and turned on my heels to get the hell out of the pub. I had seen what I came for and confirmed that Trace was good at making music and even better at being an asshole.

  Just as I was about to shove an old, fat man out of my way, Trace’s fingers staled around my arm. He pulled me backwards and I crashed into him, his chest colliding with my shoulders. “Where’s Wesley?”