The Girl You Thought I Was

by Rebecca Phillips

  “Take it home with you.” I stand up and stretch my back muscles, cramped from being hunched over on the floor for so long. “Hide it under your mattress so your mom won’t find it.”

  “Wow,” he says, rubbing his knee again. “You really know how to kill a mood.”

  I laugh and sit down on the box next to him, not bothering to close it first. A book corner digs into my thigh, but I don’t care. I think about Sophie’s response the other day when I said Eli and I had nothing in common: No. I don’t accept that. Right now, I don’t either. No, we don’t have much in common. No, I’m not who he thinks I am. But at moments like this, when he’s mere inches from me and I’m feeling the heat from his skin and breathing in the piney scent that turns the rational parts of my brain to oatmeal, all those hesitations seem to take a flying leap out the nearest window.

  “Is your knee bothering you?” I ask, then bite my lip when I realize how husky my voice sounds.

  “A little.” He stops rubbing it and leans back, pressing his palm against the pile of books behind me. His biceps grazes the back of my shoulder and all the nerve endings in my body ignite at once. “I think I tweaked it when we were putting the bookshelf together yesterday.”

  I look down at my hands, folded tightly in my lap. “Rita mentioned that your dad’s a surgeon. Did he operate on your knee?” As I say this, I hear how stupid I sound, but my brain doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with my words.

  Thankfully, Eli just laughs. “No. One, surgeons aren’t allowed to operate on their family members, and two, he’s not an orthopedic surgeon. He specializes in oral maxillofacial surgery, which means he mostly fixes people’s mouths, faces, and jaws. And as you can plainly see, my face is already perfect.”

  I smirk at him. “How about your mom? What does she do?”

  “Besides nag at me to take out the garbage? She’s the principal at Haven Elementary.”

  Wow. Two impressively successful parents. His house must be huge.

  Eli shifts his weight on the box, which only succeeds in sliding the box closer to mine. “Okay, tell me about your parents now, since we’re on the subject.”

  Talk about a loaded question. “Um, my dad sells cars for Honda.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She works for Honda too, in the finance department.”

  “So they work together?”

  I brush some dust off my jeans. “Not anymore. She moved to another dealership.” In another town, with another man, to live another life . . .

  “Oh.”

  I don’t look at him, but I can sense his brain working, gearing up to ask more questions. But he doesn’t, and I’m glad. There are other things I’d rather do right now than talk.

  We’re sitting very close, but I move over a few inches more, pretending to search for a comfortable spot on this mountain of books. I’m on his left, which means his damaged knee is right there, almost-but-not-quite touching mine. After a moment or two of hesitation, I reach over and trace his biggest scar with my fingertip. He keeps stock-still, barely breathing as I skim my fingers from one scar to the next, connecting them with invisible lines across his skin. Once I’ve touched every millimeter of fibrous tissue, I lay my palm gently over his kneecap. Eli lets out a breath and looks at me, his eyes suddenly as dark as his shirt.

  “I’m healed,” he whispers.

  The way he’s gazing at me makes my stomach flip-flop. I hold my breath as our faces edge closer and closer, until finally, our lips meet somewhere in the middle. Then, barely five seconds in, I almost take out his eye with the corner of my glasses. We back away from each other, laughing.

  “Sorry,” I say, quickly removing them and placing them on one of the boxes.

  When I turn back to him, he puts his hand on the side of my face and pulls me in again. This time, there’s nothing in the way. I try to divide my attention between kissing him and listening for footsteps heading this way, but it’s hopeless. Soon I’m lost in the feel of his hands tangled in my hair, then gripping my waist, drawing me against him. The boxes strain against our weight as the scents of cardboard and musty books rise up between us.

  “Eli! Eli, darling, where did you run off to? I can’t find the Scotch tape.”

  We jerk away from each other, and I almost tumble off the edge of the box. Eli takes hold of my arm, righting me, and glances over his shoulder at the still-open door. “Damn it, Aunt Rita,” he mumbles. “You and your Scotch tape have the worst fucking timing ever.”

  I snort and then burst into giggles. Eli sighs dramatically and reaches for my glasses, which he polishes on his shirt before handing to me. He gives me another quick kiss before standing up. “I should walk in on you reading smut more often.”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Eli!” Rita calls again, this time with more force. She must really need that tape.

  “Be right there!” Eli calls back to her, then faces me again. “To be continued later? I mean, somewhere that isn’t the back of my aunt’s store?”

  I put my glasses on and the room slides into sharp focus. The stacks of bags and boxes. The piles of books still needing price stickers. Eli’s red, slightly swollen lips. Do mine look the same? They feel like they do.

  “Sure thing,” I say, borrowing another one of his phrases.

  He backs out of the room, grinning. “Maybe next time I’ll let you feel my granite abs.”

  I snatch a random ball of newspaper off the floor and chuck it at him. He ducks behind the door before it can make contact, snickering the whole time. I ignore him and get back to work.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE IDEA OF DAD AND ME SHARING COOKING responsibilities didn’t exactly pan out like we’d hoped. After one mediocre dinner from me and two from him—one of which ended in a small grease fire—we resigned ourselves to the fact that we aren’t the culinary type and went back to pizza and Chinese. I don’t mind. Greasy fast food is better than having a mountain of dishes to wash after these cooking experiments.

  At least that’s what I tell myself when my father starts coming home later and later at night, shoulders sagging under the weight of stress and takeout bags. After yet another expensive meeting with his lawyer to go over divorce details, he’s been working extra hours, taking on more sales, and generally dedicating his life to the dealership. It’s giving me flashbacks to when I was little and mostly saw him at breakfast.

  He’s even at work on Thursday afternoon, one of his supposed days off, when I bring in my car for its semiannual maintenance appointment.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask when I walk out to the sales floor after dropping off my keys at service and find him sitting at his desk. He was still sleeping when I left for my early shift this morning.

  “Oh. Morgan. I forgot you were coming in today.” He glances back at his computer screen and types in a few numbers. “Just catching up on a few things. Is your car with Wayne?”

  Wayne, a heavyset bald guy with a gravelly voice and a permanent pack of smokes in his pocket, is Dad’s favorite mechanic in the service department. He’s usually the one who takes care of my car.

  “I guess so.” I sit in the padded chair across from him, as I’ve done so many times throughout my life. I used to spend quite a bit of time in this building when I was younger and both my parents worked here. The clean white floors, the shiny display models, and the selection of Top 40 hits running on a loop over the sound system feels as familiar to me as home.

  Dad stops typing and looks at his watch. “How did it get to be two o’clock? I haven’t even eaten lunch yet.”

  “Me either.” I came here straight from work, grabbing a strawberry banana smoothie for the road. But that wore off about fifteen minutes ago and now my stomach is rumbling for something substantial.

  “Let’s go get something, then.” He loosens his tie and wheels away from the desk. “I’ve been meaning to try the new café that just opened across the street.”

  I quickly agree. My car will
be here for at least another hour, anyway, and I haven’t spent more than ten minutes with my father all week. Residual tension aside, I do miss him when he’s not around much.

  We’re almost out the door when a woman suddenly appears and intercepts us. “Charlie,” she says, gripping my father’s forearm with her manicured hand. “Debra Faraday called and said she wants the Odyssey after all.”

  “Really? Which trim level?”

  “Touring. Can you believe it?”

  Dad smiles and congratulates her, this woman I’ve never seen before in my life, and several things hit me at once. One, she called my father “Charlie.” No one calls him that because he hates it, but he didn’t even blink when this woman did it. Second, she’s obviously a new salesperson here, and a young one at that. Pretty too, with her long dark hair and even longer legs, showcased to their best advantage in high heels and a short black skirt. Third, she’s gazing at my father with something more than professional courtesy, which is kind of strange seeing as she can’t be older than thirty and looks like that while Dad’s a forty-eight-year-old divorcé with thinning hair and an increasingly flabby middle from too much fried food. He still has a nice smile, though, and this woman seems to be basking in the glow of it.

  “And who’s this?” she asks, finally noticing my presence. She flicks her hair over her shoulder, and I catch sight of her name tag—Kristi. Of course. Of course it’s spelled with an i. She probably dots it with a heart whenever she signs her name.

  Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. I suppress the urge to shrug it off. “This is my daughter Morgan.”

  Kristi with an i beams at me. “I should’ve known. Gosh, Charlie, she looks just like you.” She holds out a hand for me to shake. “Hi, Morgan, I’m Kristi McGrath. Can I interest you in a new vehicle?”

  She and Dad laugh like this is the funniest joke ever, while I stare blankly at the floor. God, this is all I need. I don’t mind the idea of my father moving on, but not with someone like her. Being in a relationship with someone he works with didn’t turn out so well for him last time. Also, she’s like ten years older than me. This can’t be happening.

  Finally, we say good-bye to Kristi and walk across the street to the café, which is virtually empty after the lunch-hour rush. Or maybe it’s always empty. In any case, we’re sitting at a table with our paninis in less than ten minutes.

  “Are you okay?” Dad asks as he uncaps his bottle of water. “You haven’t said a word since we left the dealership.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but different words gush out instead. “She’s kind of young for you, don’t you think?”

  He takes a drink, his forehead creasing in confusion. Then, a beat later, the light comes on and his eyes widen. “You mean Kristi? It’s not—” He lets out a cough. “It’s not like that. Kristi’s one of the top salespeople on the team. She’s me ten years ago. Driven, competitive—”

  “Into you,” I finish for him. My chicken avocado panini is sitting in front of me, slowly growing cold, but I can’t eat until I know what the hell is going on.

  “Morgan, it is not like that,” he repeats, red creeping up his neck. Like me, his fair skin shows everything. “She’s young and energetic and bright and I’m . . . Anyway, a work relationship, or any relationship for that matter, is the last thing I need right now. Okay? And besides,” he adds, picking up his sandwich, “even if she was into me or whatever, it wouldn’t be any of your business. I haven’t grilled you about the boy you’ve been out with almost every night this week, have I?”

  I blink at him. How does he know about Eli? I haven’t brought him up at all, and Dad has barely been home all week. It’s not like I’m coming home with giant hickeys or something. He must’ve seen Eli pick me up at some point. He’s hard to miss.

  “Touché,” I say, and bite into my lukewarm sandwich. I take my time chewing, letting my thoughts organize themselves before I add, “You could move on, though, you know. I mean, with someone you’re not in competition with, who’s closer to your age than mine. I mean, Mom moved on a long time ago. Obviously.”

  Dad swipes a napkin across his mouth, avoiding my gaze. “Maybe once you’re in college. There’s no rush.”

  The chicken in my mouth turns to paste, bland and rubbery. I hate the thought that I’m holding him back from living just because he has me to take care of for another year or so.

  “Oh, Miss Morgan,” Dad says with a sigh as he finishes his panini. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  My anxiety fades into warmth. I’m not sure if he means here as in the café, or here as in with him instead of Mom, but it feels good to know he still wants me around after all the shit I’ve put him through so far this summer.

  This renewed connection between us prompts me to dig out my phone and bring up the text Mom sent me last week. I slide my phone across the table and watch his face as he reads her words. But his expression doesn’t change, even after he slides the phone back to me.

  “I knew she texted you,” he says, pushing his plate away. “She mentioned it to me last Thursday when we met with the lawyers.”

  I drop the piece of crust I’m holding. “You—you’ve seen her? She was—was she here? In the city?”

  He gives me a weird look, like I’ve suddenly begun speaking Latin. “We have to see each other sometimes, Morgan. It’s not like you can get a divorce over email.”

  He’s right, of course, but I’ve never thought about them still occupying the same space before. When Mom moved away, it felt like forever. Like she not only left everything behind but threw a lit match on it as she went, torching it to the foundation. The thought of her being here, in the city, so close to me, makes my chest throb with . . . something. Resentment? Longing? Both? Did she even consider trying to see me while she was here? I have no clue how I’d react if she did try. If she walked into Royal Smoothie tomorrow, what would I do? Say?

  “At least she’s doing something, I guess,” Dad says, crumpling his napkin and tossing it on the plate. “Trying to make things right.”

  She’ll have to try harder than that, I think, but to my father I say, “My car will probably be ready soon.”

  Dad smiles sadly and nods and then does something he hasn’t done in at least five years—he reaches across the table and ruffles my hair.

  When I leave work the next evening, I’m surprised to see Eli’s Jeep—with him in it—parked in front of my car. When he sees me, he powers down the passenger-side window, letting out a gust of AC. I pause and duck my head in.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him. We’d made tentative plans to hang out at nine, but it’s only ten after seven.

  Instead of answering, he gives me that dark, scorching look, the one that makes my brain dissolve. “Get in for a sec.”

  “Eli. I’m, like, covered in yogurt and pineapple guts. I need to go home and get a shower before we go out.”

  “That’s fine, because I just finished a landscaping job and I’m covered in dirt and grass clippings. Hop in for a minute. Please,” he tacks on, flashing me his usual mischievous smile.

  I add irresistible to his list of attractive qualities and climb into the Jeep. Before I can do or say anything else, he leans across the gearshift and kisses me full on the mouth. I kiss him back without hesitation, raking my fingers through the damp hair at the back of his neck. He smells like a blend of sunscreen and cut grass and fresh, clean earth. All the best parts of summer. It’s more appealing than any cologne, and I have to force myself to pull away.

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” I say, pressing my palm against his chest. “What do you want? I mean, besides . . . more of this.”

  He rears back in mock horror. “Whatever do you mean?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. He’s acting even more affectionate than usual. I get the sense that he’s trying to disarm me with his lips so he can soften me up for something.

  “Okay, okay.” He rubs at a smudge of dirt on his forearm. “This dude I’m
sort of friends with, Zander, is having a party at his house tomorrow night, and he asked me if I wanted to drop by. A lot of people I graduated with are going to be there, including the ones who forgot I existed after my knee injury, so I just . . . I don’t know. When I was recovering, I realized who my real friends were, and I can literally count them on one hand. The thought of socializing with people I don’t like just to hang out with the few I do want to see makes me kind of not want to go. At least not by myself. You know?”

  I think back to last Saturday, when I decided it was finally time to add him on Facebook. After he accepted my friend request, I spent the next few minutes creeping around his page, looking through pictures. Most of the ones I found were from last year, before his injury. In each shot he was surrounded by smiling groups of people—friends, family, hockey teammates. But the pictures I paused on the longest were the ones of him and a beautiful, dark-haired Asian girl. Ruby Liao, according to the corresponding tags.

  I can’t help wondering what happened to her. If she was one of the ex-friends who dumped him when his obviously shiny life was disrupted by months of painful recuperation.

  I refocus on Eli. He’s given up on the dirt splotch and is now gazing at the steering wheel. “Are you asking me to go with you so you can use me as a scapegoat when we cut out early?”

  He lets out a breath. “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. But you could’ve asked me when you saw me later tonight, you know. You didn’t have to come here straight from work.”

  “I know, but I just found out about it, and also I didn’t really want to wait until nine to see you.”

  I smile and he leans over to kiss me again, skillfully avoiding the edges of my glasses. I’m just getting into it when he suddenly pulls back, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder.