by Molly Ringle
Everyone except Laurence.
At that poignant thought, for some reason, a long-buried memory flew into my consciousness.
One spring night when we were fifteen, I had found him in the Wild Rose Cemetery. He was sitting alone, leaning against his mother’s tombstone. She had died the year before, a long-expected death from a cancer diagnosed when we were in fifth grade.
We all grieved for her. When we visited Laurence’s house she played any card or board game we wanted, even when she was too tired to change out of her bathrobe. She let us watch R-rated films as long as we promised not to tell our folks. Her banter with Laurence and his dad was hilarious enough to be filmed for prime time. She was the cool mom everyone wanted to have.
Laurence, though he must have grieved more than anyone, bore her loss in his usual stoic fashion, never weeping on our shoulders or falling into suicidal despair. Visiting her grave alone at night was the most sentimental act I had ever caught him in.
I’d been looking for Amber. It was Saturday night and she wasn’t answering her phone; the graveyard seemed the place to look. But I found Laurence instead. He didn’t hear me on the dirt path, and didn’t see me either, as I stopped behind the low stone wall under a willow tree.
He gazed at the grass, sniffling. At first I figured he had a cold. Laurence frequently had colds, and sitting out on a damp April night was no way to cure one. Then he took off his glasses and dabbed his eyes with his sweater sleeve, and my heart lunged.
I suffered a minute of internal conflict, grinding my fist on the tree as I flipped through consolatory statements in my head. But in the end I stole away, leaving him alone, for I was sure he would resent my interference. Either that, or I was cowardly, and no kind of friend at all.
Yeah, the latter. I saw it clearly enough now. God, how many ways did I suck?
I turned my face toward the wall and pulled the duvet up to my ears, for there was no need for anyone else in Room 17 to know I was weeping over that Yank bloke Laurence who worked the front desk.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: World Travelers and Career Counseling
Hi Trash Barge!
Crazy notion here. I want to come to “Embra” again. This time for the Feb 19th thing, to see what happens, and help out if I can. I know it’s weird, and I know I haven’t been Amber’s closest friend ever, but it’s been haunting me. So if it’s okay, I really want to do it. I think I can swing it with my homework and my parents and all. (Well, I’m 18 now, they have to let me!) What do you think?
Love,
Guano Face
Reading that text less than twenty-four hours after realizing I was in love with Laurence, I burst into hysterical giggles. I was at work at the time, on an afternoon break, and the housekeeper glared at me.
“Has someone sent you one of them YouTube thingies? Och, those are absurd. Cannae stand them.”
I apologized, assured her it wasn’t one of them YouTube thingies, and turned off my phone. But a mere half-hour of desperate reflection while stacking hot, clean plates and silverware in the hotel cupboards was enough to give me my answer.
Yes, come! I typed after hanging up my apron for the day. It’ll be great to see you even if nothing happens with Amber. Looking forward to it!
It didn’t matter if I hadn’t asked Amber’s permission first. If she didn’t want Tony nearby for the nineteenth, he’d be a good boy and go tour churches that day. She couldn’t refuse me a visit from my boyfriend. And, damn it, I needed someone steady to hold onto. I wasn’t going to win Laurence, or even try. I was only going to suffer worse the more I hung out with him. I had to remind myself that Tony, if anyone, was my future, not Laurence.
Or such was the story I tried to make myself buy. Meanwhile the romantic portion of my brain kept concocting little Laurencian fantasies, and always leaped to accept when he asked if I wanted to grab some dinner or go for a walk. Stupid brain.
One day while we walked through the University grounds, I spotted a familiar-shaped leaf on a ground cover, and stooped to poke my gloved finger at it. “Think these are violets.” I brushed away the brown leaves that had fallen upon them. “That’ll be pretty, violets under this tree.”
“We have those in the backyard at home,” Laurence said. “They took over our gravel path.”
“Yeah, they do that.” I stood up and dusted the soil off my gloves. “Our house too, around the mailbox. But I never minded. They’re probably my favorite invasive plant.”
Laurence laughed. “Listen to you. You ought to major in horticulture.”
I snorted as we resumed our walk. “Right, and end up like Pam Nesbitt, running a landscaping company in a small town, divorced, living in a trailer and never letting go of my 80s hairdo.” I shuddered at the image of my old boss back in Wild Rose.
He shook his head. “You’re smart, but you’re such an idiot.”
“Uh, thanks, and screw you?”
“What I mean is you have a talent for this stuff. You don’t even know it. And Pam Nesbitt is the way she is because she’s Pam Nesbitt, not because she works with plants.”
I frowned. “I have a talent?”
“What’s the Latin name for violets?”
“Viola something. There are lots of varieties. But that’s an easy one.”
“Moss. You said something the other day about moss. Scottish moss?”
“Scotch moss. I said, ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if there wasn’t actually any Scotch moss in Scotland?’ But that doesn’t exactly qualify me--”
“How many other kinds of moss are there?”
“Dude, like, thousands. But Scotch moss, or Irish moss, isn’t actually moss. It’s a perennial ground cover, so it doesn’t--”
“There.” He jabbed my arm with his forefinger, clad in its dark brown leather glove. “See? I didn’t know that. Nobody knows that unless they’ve got a talent for plants.”
“Oh.” I fell quiet as I paced along beside him. My mind re-categorized all the incidents where I had labeled myself a nerd for such knowledge. Horticulture actually overlapped with chemistry, Laurence’s field. Was this a method by which I might impress him?
“So, think about studying it professionally,” he said. “That’s all. End of counseling session.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I swung my elbow to whack against his. “Could have told me this before I sent out my college applications.”
“Don’t worry. Easy to study plants in green ol’ Oregon.”
Or Berkeley, if I got accepted there. Now that would impress him. My heartbeat went a bit crazy. And if it happened, maybe we’d have a chance together. Maybe we wouldn’t have to live in separate states come September; maybe fate would finally grant me a fortuitous roll of the dice and everything would fall into place.
Yeah, but in the meantime, Amber was coming back next week, and Tony was visiting shortly after that, so my schedule of new romantic possibilities would have to wait.
I didn’t tell Amber and Laurence about Tony’s impending arrival until he finalized the details and sent me his flight number. Those popped into my email that evening. I sighed, set up a forwarding message, and typed Amber’s and Laurence’s addresses in the top.
Good news, I wrote. We’ll have extra company for the 19th. Amber, say the word if you don’t want him around. He’ll do whatever you prefer for that day.
I sent it off, feeling squeamish. It wasn’t the thought of Amber’s reaction that worried me. She’d tortured me enough with all her stalker drooling over Laurence; the least I could do was inflict my boyfriend on her once in a while in return. What actually bothered me was some twisted idea that I was betraying or hurting Laurence by typing cheerfully about Tony’s visit. Ugh. How lame. As if I was supposed to throw all my loyalties onto Laurence’s side--as if Laurence even knew or cared.
I turned off my phone, all too aware that despite breaking things off with Gil, I still possessed one hell of a screwed-up love life.
* * *
Amber sent a quick
response--No prob. Couldn’t hurt to have an altar boy along!--easing my conscience on that front, at least. She returned in person the next week, her face darkened by the Israel sun, her digital camera chock-full of photos of ancient shrines, clay buildings under blue skies, pilgrims in various headdresses, and bored-looking dudes with machine guns. It sounded like she’d had a highly satisfying time wandering around with Steph and feeling personally free of the risk of being mugged or taken hostage.
With that adventure out of the way, she turned her cannons full-force toward seducing Laurence. She slept in Room 17 again at night, but apparently only because Laurence insisted. And that didn’t stop her from trying to get under his clothes every other hour of the day.
I couldn’t watch. I found excuses to be elsewhere, accepted invitations to pub trivia nights with coworkers or other hostel inmates, stayed out of the hostel whenever I could, and lingered in CD shops or cafes.
None of my distractions worked. For one thing, Amber related details to me when she caught me at the hostel, or texted me if she couldn’t find me. Over the first week of February alone, I got the messages:
He’s still holding out, but I think I FELT something again if ya get the meaning. ;)
And: Maybe a full-body massage. Hmmm. I’ll offer him one.
And: He liked the massage but fell asleep. This time I’ll ask him for one. And I’ll take off my shirt to make it easier to reach those shoulder muscles.
Gritting my teeth, I forced answers like, Hah, you’re wicked, and Worth a try. Three words seemed my maximum.
Meanwhile Laurence kept contacting me too, though at less frequent intervals.
Why are you abandoning me to this? he texted on the third day after her return.
My heart twisted in agony and love, but I wasn’t sure if he meant the question wryly or sincerely. So I answered, Kind of a deal between you two. Not my place to interfere. ;)
The winking emoticon, of course, was a fake representation of my feelings, meant only to keep me from seeming sulky. But sulking, in truth, occupied me all day.
Browse CDs and stroll through winter gardens though I might, my mind flogged itself with images of all the tricks Amber might be pulling on Laurence at that very moment. Worse yet, I kept picturing him reciprocating, giving in at last, enfolding her in a kiss of pent-up eighteen-year-old-guy lust.
I wanted it to be me. I wanted it so much. Staying away would at least ease the want, right? Eventually?
Valentine’s Day resolved nothing. That afternoon apparently featured Amber wearing lingerie and chocolate body paint in Laurence’s room, and still not getting laid. When he saw me later that night in the kitchen, he handed me the jar of leftover chocolate paint, and deadpanned, “For you and Tony.”
Dare I take that as jealousy? Damn, Laurence was hard to read.
Meanwhile, Tony sent me an e-Valentine in which he called me “Mole Rat.” I responded with a similar one at once, consumed with remorse at having forgotten. All I could come up with was “Chimp Brain.” Not my best work.
Snow had been falling in intervals since early February, but one particularly strong storm socked Edinburgh in the morning after Valentine’s Day. By nightfall on February 15, six inches of snow lay on the streets, with more cascading down in occasional flurries. The radiators in the hostel, having worked hard since November, sounded weak and wheezy. Everyone walked around shivering. When I left for work that morning, Laurence and two other hostel employees stomped up and down the stairs to the basement, where apparently the old furnace was gasping its last. One of them shouted at a repairman on the phone.
When I returned from work, shaking snowflakes off my purple fleece hat, I found Laurence behind the front desk, wearing his green wool scarf and knit hat. The tip of his nose was an unhealthy reddish-purple.
“Is it me, or is it cold in here?” I asked.
“Very good, Watson,” he said sourly.
“Did you guys not fix the furnace?”
“The thing is a hopeless, ancient beast that should have exploded five years ago. The repairmen said there’s no hope. The hostel owners are scrambling to get us a new part. This after they made me spend four hours down there trying to fix it, because, as they said, ‘You’re good with science; you should know how.’”
“I’m sorry, Laurence.” I meant it, though I couldn’t help grinning.
“Yeah. Well, babe, there’s still hot water, but there’s not going to be any heat tonight. And probably not tomorrow either. So bundle up. Tony arrives tomorrow, right?”
I nodded.
Laurence stapled a receipt to a sheet of paper with a bang. “Tell him to bring layers.”
“Righto.” I retreated, leaving him alone with his bad mood.
Sitting in the kitchen that evening, reading while other people did their cooking, was tolerable enough, as the gas stoves added a few degrees of heat to the room. My fingers and nose did grow colder as the hours advanced, but not to the point of medical danger. This was how the natives of Edinburgh used to live, I reminded myself. They didn’t even have the benefit of electric lights and gas stoves. Indeed, they’d had to worry about plagues and being hanged for witchcraft by an angry mob. My current lack of a creature comfort was nothing to complain about.
Of course, those old Edinburghers were long dead and gone, and I did have plenty of reason to complain, I decided later as I shivered in my bed. Those people had at least owned fireplaces, which we did not. And while most of today’s Edinburgh citizens enjoyed central heating tonight, I huddled in a dilapidated hostel, slowly freezing to death.
Room 17 was shockingly cold. Whatever heat it contained had risen to the ceiling, twelve feet above. People paired off and slept together for warmth, or bundled on extra clothes. I tried the latter, donning wool socks, long johns, and my fleece hat, but I still didn’t warm up. The former sounded nice, but I doubted I could convince Laurence to give it a go--though surely Amber would before long.
Hang on. Fireplaces. Laurence had a fireplace. Surely he’d share? And if I was the one to suggest it to Amber, she’d have to let me come along, and at least my presence would keep her from succeeding tonight in her quest. Hmm.
I climbed out of bed, threw a sweater on over my pajamas, and tiptoed to Amber’s bed.
I tapped her. “You awake?”
She rolled over. “Like anyone could sleep in this igloo.”
“Let’s try Laurence and his fireplace. What do you say?”
She kicked off her covers. “You’re on.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Firelight and Dreams
A while later, there we were, cozy in bed: Laurence, Amber, and me.
He lay in the middle, on his back, snoring softly. Amber snuggled against his right side, asleep, her hand upon his chest, her black hair tumbling over her face. The flickering light from his fireplace danced across their faces. They looked like a beautiful couple who had fallen asleep after hours of satisfying sex--and after putting their pajamas back on for whatever reason.
At least that sex hadn’t happened. When Amber and I had knocked on the door of his room, clutching our pillows and shivering, Laurence had let us in and smiled triumphantly at the leaping flames in the fireplace he technically wasn’t supposed to use.
We’d all huddled in front of the fire a while, breathing the cozy smell of wood smoke, talking about the weather and how inhumanly cold it was in this damn building.
Then Amber said, “So, Laur. Queen-size bed. You’re going to be a gentleman, right?”
“And not molest either of you even though you’ll be keeping me warm on both sides? Yes, I will be a gentleman.”
Both sides? Both of us? I didn’t protest. All in the name of warmth; nothing improper about it.
While I climbed into bed on his left side and tried not to take up too much space, Amber remarked, “You know, I wouldn’t complain about a little molesting.”
“I’m sure that’s just what Eva wants,” Laurence told her. “A free peepshow.”
“Fine.” Amber kissed him on the lips. “Not now. But your time is running out, boy-o.” She lay down and draped her arm across him, and soon they were both asleep.
That was--I checked my watch--an hour ago. I still couldn’t sleep.
I shifted and flopped, seeking a better position, one that would retain the heat radiating from Laurence on my right, while avoiding the ice-cold seeping in my left, without squishing my arm either way.
One of my squirms must have woken Laurence. I had my back to him, but I heard him draw a breath, and he murmured, “Can’t sleep?”
“Not yet,” I whispered.
“Cold?”
“Kind of.”
He shifted too. Cold air spilled under the blanket between us for a terrible second, then heat replaced it as he fit himself against me like a spoon and draped his arm over me.
That was it. He said nothing, didn’t move, apparently went back to sleep.
Well, it might be all I’d ever get. Tomorrow Tony would arrive, putting a definite end to opportunities of this sort. Time to savor it. The smell of the smoke, the sound of his deep breathing, the touch of his hand against my ribs...
Tears pricked my eyes. God, all this emotional turmoil was turning me into a wimp. But at least now I was warm. Hugging Laurence’s arm to me, I closed my sore eyes and fell asleep.
Naturally I’d have one of those dreams.
I lay in this same bed, with the same fire, but Amber was gone, and for that matter so were Laurence’s clothes and mine. His hand traveled up and down my body, teasing one intimate spot after another, while he nipped at my neck and shoulders. At the back of my thighs I felt that arousal Amber kept salaciously mentioning, and love soared through me at the knowledge that I was feeling it more definitely and with more of Laurence’s cooperation than she ever would. I turned onto my back and pulled Laurence onto me, damp lips and pelvises crashing together, naughty words and pleas echoing between us...
