by Molly Ringle
I sipped the coffee, and my eyes watered. She’d made it strong enough for one of those Scottish log-tossing guys. “The life list.”
“Exactly. Even dangerous stuff, because I know it can’t hurt me. Nothing can, until the nineteenth of February!”
“That’s...risky logic, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“I’m totally stoked about this. I’m composing the list in my head already.”
“Skydiving? Tornado chasing?”
She laughed, and swung to lean against the counter, bangle bracelets jangling. “Maybe. Mostly I want to go places. See everything. Taste and touch it all. A girl on the second floor was talking about going to Israel and Jordan in a couple weeks. Maybe I’ll go with her.”
“Those are...wow.” I swallowed down the words extremely dangerous places, and said, “Exciting. Expensive, though.”
“True. But what am I going to need money for, after the nineteenth?”
I managed to avoid voicing my next snarky answer--funeral expenses?--and pulled down our plastic basket of food to search for cereal. “This is good. I’m glad you’re seeing it this way. And really, I think everything will be okay on the nineteenth anyhow.”
“Hopefully. But just in case...” She dumped her mug in the sink and breezed for the door. “Got some planning to do. See you!”
Her good mood wasn’t completely permanent; it had to vie for her attention with fears and anxieties. A few mornings later her hopes had plummeted and left her depressed. The two of us were taking a walk in the Grassmarket district.
“What about those daily ghosts?” I asked her as we entered a narrow street. “Do you still see those?”
“Yeah.” She held her paper coffee cup close to her chin, hands enveloping it as if hoarding its warmth. “Horrible one yesterday. A beheaded body fell across the sidewalk in front of me, on the Royal Mile.”
I shuddered, drawing my own cup of tea closer to my chest. “Nasty.”
“I actually screamed. People looked at me like I was insane.” She glanced across the street. The pale sun peeked between rooftops and illuminated the outline of her hair and the steam of her breath. “Which of course I might be.”
“You don’t seem crazy--besides the ghost thing--which some view as a skill.”
“If I’m not crazy, I’m doomed. Why else would they be stalking me? It’s like they’re preparing to pull me into their ranks on the nineteenth.”
I sipped my peppermint tea as we crossed the street. Still too hot, the drink scalded my throat. “You know,” I said, wincing, “we keep saying it, but it’s true. Maybe something good will happen that day. Or nothing at all.”
“Good how?” She sounded weary and resigned, with a thin lining of hope.
“I don’t know. A message, maybe. Something cool and important. Where to find buried treasure. Or a promise that you’ll live a long and prosperous life.”
“That would be nice.” She sounded dry, but at least I got a smile out of her.
“Besides, why would you...” I stopped talking when I saw the dread on her face. She was looking past me. I swirled around and saw nothing, just the window of a book shop piled with ancient, cracked hardbound volumes. I turned to Amber. “What?”
She lowered her nose to her coffee. “One behind you,” she mumbled.
My skin crawled. “What’s it doing?” No idea why I asked that, since I didn’t really want to know.
“A man, middle-aged. Horrible teeth. Medieval clothes. Shouting at everyone who goes by.”
“Can you hear him?” The street was quiet; only a few other pedestrians and a couple of cars puttered along it.
She shook her head, venturing another glance. “But he looks pretty mad.”
“Can we go, then?”
Nodding, she backed away.
Together we scurried around a corner.
“Next time,” I requested, “can you just not tell me these things?”
We traveled several paces before she responded, her tone injured and sarcastic. “Sorry.”
“It does me no good. It only wigs me out.”
“Yeah. That’s what my whole day is like. I understand why you don’t want to share the feeling.”
I restrained the desire to fling my tea cup against a door. “I want to help you. Forget I said anything. I was creeped out, that’s all.”
“No, it’s fine. I won’t burden you with it.”
We walked back to the hostel with only a few forced and superficial comments, spaced five minutes apart. They touched upon lame topics like an odd-shaped loaf of bread in a bakery window, a chubby pigeon, and an unpronounceable street name. At the hostel, she peeled off from my side and trooped directly up to find Laurence.
The only consolation I derived was that he would not entirely take her side when she told him about my remark. He would smooth her raised hackles, but he would also come to me later that day and smooth mine. Which he did. We enjoyed a pleasant evening of shortbread cookies and wisecracks in a local cafe, just the two of us. Useful guy, Laurence.
I didn’t mind admitting such things these days. Life was truly upside-down.
That was the night I had the dream.
“Eva. Turn around,” he said.
I turned at the top of the stairs.
“Open your coat,” he said. He stood three steps down from me, one hand on the railing.
I opened my overcoat, exposing a short red satin dress.
“Undo another three buttons,” he said.
I looked down. Three were already undone and almost showed my bra. I obeyed and unfastened three more. Nothing to worry about; I wasn’t wearing a bra. No underwear or stockings either. I shifted my legs and felt skin on skin.
He came up a step. “Another.”
I tried to obey, but the button was stuck. He climbed to the step below me, pushed my hands away, and unfastened my buttons himself. The dress fell open. His hands slid onto my stomach and then my thighs. The stairwell melted upward. Even the hard tiled floor felt soft as a mattress against my back, and I found myself impressed at the amount of detail I could feel through his jeans.
My eyelids flew open, and I stared at the patterns of streetlight on the dark ceiling of Room 17.
Oh, crap.
You want what you can’t have, is that the problem? Is this what we’re going to do for the rest of our life?
We would try not to. We swore it.
* * *
Things complicated themselves further two days later. While I sat on the floor of Room 17 reading my email, Amber strolled in and spread her hands before me. “It’s settled. I’m going to Jerusalem next week.”
“Wowsers. For how long?”
“Two weeks. I should be back at the end of January.”
I closed the chitchatty email from my parents, and sat up straight. “Who’s going? You and that girl...”
“Steph. Just us, yeah.”
A quiver of hope stirred inside me, probably a remnant of my weird sexual-deprivation dream. “You don’t mind leaving Laurence?”
“I mind, but...” She smiled a devious smile. “He’s my next visit. I have a proposal for him.”
“You’re going to propose to him?”
“No, silly. I have a proposal. A request, actually.” She sauntered to the door. “I’ll tell you how it goes.”
I sat staring across the room after she’d gone. Within a minute the pieces tumbled into place, and I knew exactly what she was going to request of him. How come I hadn’t thought of it before? On her life list, nothing ranked higher these days than Shag Laurence. She hadn’t accomplished it yet--she hadn’t even gotten him to admit they were boyfriend and girlfriend. But now that the doom clock was ticking (in her mind if nowhere else), she would put the pressure on.
He wouldn’t give in, though. Would he?
Turned out I was right on both counts, at least for now. While I browsed a CD shop alone that evening, thinking enviously of Shelly and Gil and their musical careers
of awesomeness (not to mention their happy romance), I got a text on my phone.
So, I told him I wanted him for my life list. He’s still being the gentleman, all “don’t want to ruin friendship” but I think I’ve got a shot. Wish me luck. ;-)
I jabbed the button to close the message, and shoved the phone into my pocket. I’d be wishing her no damn such thing. God, of all the tacky behavior. If a guy acted like that, we’d call the cops on him for being a stalker. You couldn’t tell such things to a friend weathering rough times, of course, but after February nineteenth, if she was still with us, I’d most certainly share my views.
In the meantime, at least she’d be leaving the country for two weeks, giving poor Laurence a breather. I breathed easier myself at the thought of it.
A couple of minutes later, unable to concentrate on the CDs I was leafing through, I whipped out my phone again.
Laurence answered his cell within two rings. “Evel Knievel. What’s up?”
“Aw, you used one of your middle school nicknames for me. I feel all nostalgic.”
“Guess I fell back on old habits. I’m not thinking creatively tonight.”
I picked up a White Stripes album and smiled at the back of it. “Can’t blame you, with everything Amber’s loaded onto your mind.”
“She told you already? Sleazy news travels fast.”
“Answer me this.” I turned the album over again, thumbing the shrink wrap at the corners. “If you want her, what’s holding you back? And if you don’t want her, why not say so?”
He sighed. “Those aren’t all the possibilities.”
“No?”
“You forgot, ‘If you kind of want her but kind of don’t.’”
I slipped the CD back into its alphabetical place. “And you get on my case about indecision?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We always pick on qualities in others that we most despise in ourselves.”
“How deep.” I paced the aisle, ignoring the glare from the guy behind the counter. “So are you going to decide before she heads off to the Holy Lands?”
“Probably not. I’d rather have the two weeks to think about it.”
“Good idea. Sleep on it before you sleep with it.”
“Nice. You should put that on T-shirts.”
“A career idea at last.”
“I provide counseling in all kinds of arenas.”
The CD shop clerk raised his eyebrows at me in a Buy something or leave kind of way. I rolled my eyes and moved toward the door, still talking to Laurence. “We’ve noticed. And apparently it’s true about how people can fall for their therapists.”
“If Amber’s any indication. Not the rest of you, though. Darn it.”
“Sorry, you only get one at a time.” Although I now stood on the sidewalk in the chilly January night air, the flush on my face exuded comfortable heat.
Chapter Thirty-Six: It’s Over for Me
Before leaving for Jerusalem, Amber spent as much time as possible with Laurence, but to no avail. We saw her off at the curb when she and her fellow traveler, Steph, hopped into their airport-bound taxi. Before climbing in, she kissed Laurence and said, “Have a present ready for me when I get back.”
Then she hugged me, winked, and set off on her Middle Eastern tour.
I glanced at Laurence, who stood wrapped in his brown overcoat, eyebrows furrowed beneath the rims of his glasses.
“Lunch?” I offered. It was my day off.
He inhaled a breath of the cold Edinburgh air, and let it out as if finally acknowledging the relief of the two weeks’ respite. “Please.”
We settled into a sandwich shop hidden in a cobblestone-paved alley. Before I could kick off a question about his true feelings for Amber, he asked, “So you and Gil are over?”
“Completely. He’s got Shelly now.”
“But if he didn’t?”
“I think it’d still be over. I was...not sure enough about it. Long distance problem and all.”
“Could just defect, like Shannon.”
I smiled. “Nah, he’s not worth that. I’d miss home too much.”
“So you’re going back to Tony?”
My smile faltered. I dropped my gaze to the paper cup of lemonade beside my sandwich, and wiped off condensation with my fingertip. “Sure. I suppose. Might as well.”
“Such enthusiasm. I’m staggered.”
“We’ve been apart a long time. I’m sure it’ll feel normal again when I go home.”
“Is he the reason you’re only applying to Oregon schools?”
I hadn’t told Laurence about my foolishly ambitious Berkeley application. I shrugged. “Not entirely. It’s cheaper, mostly. But he’ll probably go to Marylhurst, so yeah, that helps.”
Laurence nodded, looking out the window at a bike messenger vibrating along on the cobblestones. I waited for a remark about Catholic schools or pathetic relationships or something, but he said nothing.
I took my opportunity. “Is it nice to have Amber out of your room?”
He returned his attention to our table. “Yep. Slept better than I have in weeks.”
“And...what are you going to say about her little request when she gets back?”
“Well...” He busied himself folding up the checkered paper his sandwich came wrapped in. “Look, I’m an eighteen-year-old guy. She’s hot. I like her--as a friend. We’ve known each other forever. So, yes, I’m tempted. But being friends, and knowing each other forever, plus her mental state lately...”
“Makes your conscience kick in?”
He set down the sandwich paper and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. I’d be taking advantage, and someday she’d hate me for it.”
“She might not.”
“Maybe I’d hate myself.”
“So, long term, you’re not interested?”
“Long term?” He tilted his head, tapped his fingers on the table, and finally said, “No. Not with her.”
“But you bought her a plane ticket.”
A smirk curled his lips. “Ah. She told you.”
“Well...yeah. So why do something like that if you aren’t interested?”
“I never meant it to be a favor she had to repay. I did it because she was my friend, and it was something she really wanted.”
I favored him with my best avaricious gaze. “Going to buy me something expensive I really want?”
He smiled. “Have you decided what you want?”
He did have a way of shooting straight to the truth. A blush took over my face and shoplifted all my good comebacks. I dragged around a leftover crust of bread on the tabletop. “Right. So, will you tell her you don’t want a relationship?”
“After the nineteenth. I can’t do that to her before.”
“Maybe it’s crueler to wait.” I picked up strands of shredded lettuce and built a pile of them. “Maybe you should make a decision now, and break it to her.”
“It’s only a few more weeks. It’ll come soon enough.”
True. And soon after that, we’d all go home, and I’d be back with Tony. Then in September we’d scatter with the college-bound winds. I pushed aside the remains of my sandwich. “Let’s get going.”
Laurence and I went out shopping or walking together often over the next two weeks, the only pair left from the original party of four. With Gil safely in the “ex” bin, and Tony far away and still too attached to the religious life, I lost most of my reasons to be irritable around Laurence, and dropped my defensiveness. We got along surprisingly well, heckling Amber’s travelogue messages in tandem. (I usually shared our comments with her, since I felt too guilty otherwise.) But it took me over a week to come to terms with why I felt so happy.
One sunny, icy morning, we did some errands and then stopped on Waverley Bridge to consider lunch. Laurence named a few Italian restaurants, a chip shop, a Greek place, some curry places. We rested our elbows on the railing, facing the pillars on Calton Hill. He turned to look at me.
In the past, only tortur
e would force me to admit that Laurence might be physically attractive. But this Edinburgh sojourn had grabbed my brain, flipped it over, and shaken it until none of the old neuron connections touched anymore.
And today, this moment, the sight of him knocked me breathless. His eyes, narrowed against the sun, were such a vivid green. The wind stirred strands of his hair like silk. His eyelashes, dark at the base, were washed with gold tips in the sunlight. In this northern climate, his skin had paled to a flawless ivory. His lips looked delicious, his neck was graceful, even his ears were cute.
“What do you want?” he asked, presumably referring to restaurants.
To suck on your tongue and wrap my legs around your back.
With an effort I turned my eyes toward Calton Hill. “Whatever you want. It all sounds good.”
Just like that, I knew it was over for me.
I understood what Amber had meant by, “He’s probably the best person I know.” I finally got why she’d tried so hard and so often to seduce him, sometimes even seducing herself into thinking there was something there, like at the nightclub when she shimmied up against him. I thought insanely that if it had been me in that club, I’d have done it right, and he’d have swept me into a deliriously messy kiss. I’d pay someone a thousand dollars to have that chance.
In bed that night, arms folded behind my head, I scrutinized the problem.
For starters, he couldn’t possibly be interested in me. I wasn’t good enough. How many thousand times had he made this clear? How often had he teased me for only pulling good grades in the easiest classes? How frequently did he remind me I knew next to nothing about his field of expertise, like atoms and isotopes? When did a day go by that he didn’t snicker into his sleeve at some social gaffe or bungled fact of mine?
Besides, why would he cozy up to me when he could have the gorgeous, honest, and fully available Amber? Clearly we were both below his notice, at least romantically.
Anyway, what about Tony? And, to get right to the bitter heart of the matter, what would happen next year? I couldn’t live on the MIT campus way over in Massachusetts any more than I could live in Scotland; it was entirely too far away from everyone I loved.
