by Autumn Grey
Mom’s eyes lower, and she slides her hand across the table over mine, squeezing once.
“I’ve been wondering,” I say quickly, effectively changing the subject. “Maybe we can talk later tonight? About what you wanted to tell me a few weeks ago?”
She visibly tenses. Her hands shake above my own. Her reaction makes my insides tighten almost painfully. “I’m not . . . I still need some time, okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble, somewhat relieved even though I’m the one who brought it up.
She stands up and smoothes down her apron before turning and walking away with her head down.
I roll my eyes, but the tears burning in them make it hard for me to appear as indifferent as I’d like.
Mom has been saving for my college fund for as long as I can remember. Then five years ago, her parents offered to contribute since I was their only grandchild even though the first time I met them was when they visited us the summer I turned thirteen. My mom hardly ever talked about them. It was the worst and the best summer I’ve ever had. Worst because I could feel the tension between Mom and my grandparents and best because I was so excited to finally meet them. My family.
Two years ago, they gifted me the Fiat on my birthday. At first, Mom refused to accept it, saying she didn’t want to depend on them and give them the satisfaction of thinking she needed their help or charity. Eventually, she gave in after I cried and begged her for weeks. After that, my grandparents didn’t put pressure on her about wanting to visit me. I have a feeling they wanted to, though, but after everything that had happened between them and my mom, they were handling the situation with care.
We talk on the phone from time to time, though.
I swipe the palms of my hands on my ripped jean shorts and inhale deeply. Shoving my earbuds into my ears, I scroll through my phone, picking a random song on my playlist. I pull the laptop closer, push any thoughts of college and Sol to the back of my mind, and get lost typing out my options.
The next time I look up, Sol is standing next to me, his thighs brushing the edge of the table. I glance at the clock on my laptop and realize I’ve been working for an hour straight. I look up again. His cap is pulled low, as always, and I can’t really see his eyes properly. But from the way his focus is aimed solely on me, I know he’s inspecting me closely.
“I thought you were in Boston.”
He nods, tugging his cap a little down his forehead.
“So we should really exchange numbers,” he declares, leaning forward and planting his palms flat on the table.
My eyes drop to those hands, those hands that touched me with so much adoration last night. Those beautiful hands—
“What do you say?”
My gaze snaps up to his. “Yeah. Sure! I mean, totally.” I press my lips together to keep from rambling any more.
Sol grins, moving around the table and sliding into the seat across from mine. He pulls out his phone, then stares at me expectantly.
Oh, God.
We’re doing this. We’re really doing this.
My heart is bouncing around in my chest the whole time Sol and I exchange our numbers. I wonder if he can hear how loud it’s beating. Or the way it’s trying to break free from its cage at the mere sight of him. Goosebumps spread up my arms when the tip of his index finger brushes along my knuckles as he tries to catch my attention.
“What time should I pick you up tomorrow?”
Pick me up? “What?”
“The show,” he clarifies, uncertainty crossing his face. “Wait, you still want to go with me to the concert, right?”
Oh, crap. “Yes! I still want to go with you. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to this the whole week—”
“I can see that,” he teases, then snickers.
I laugh, my gaze darting to the side, and see my mom watching us from the counter. Her words flash inside my head.
Just be careful, okay?
I look away, breaking eye contact, and return my attention to Sol, who’s studying me with a concerned look. His gaze follows the path mine traveled seconds before.
“Everything okay between you and your mom?”
“Everything’s fine,” I assure him, forcing a smile. I never thought smiling would feel this painful. I’m the opposite of fine. I feel awful thinking about my conversation with my mom and guilty for not wanting what she wants. “Seven o’clock.”
Sol blinks a few times. “Seven o’clock it is, then.”
I wink at him. With a smirk, he stands up and lifts his arms to stretch, yawning. His T-shirt rides up, exposing a taut stomach and the trail of hair disappearing into the band of his shorts. Curling my hands into fists, I look down at my laptop, my cheeks on fire. I remember my hands on his skin there. My thighs squeeze together as heat curls low in my stomach.
God. He’d felt so good.
“Ivan and MJ will meet up with us at Mike’s Bar on Wharf Street,” he says. “Wear something pretty.” Did his voice deepen at that, or is it just my imagination?
I look up and see Sol standing there, one leg bouncing as he watches me from under his cap. I wish his eyes weren’t hidden behind locks of hair and that hat. “Leave the cap at home.”
He laughs, giving me a two-finger salute before saying, “Got it. See you tomorrow, Gracie.”
He says my name like it’s a naughty little secret between us.
I bite down on my bottom lip as I watch him walk out of the diner, then focus back on the keyboard in front of me. I let the smile I was fighting so hard to conceal spread across my face.
Why must he become a priest? It’s like dangling an apple in front of a very hungry horse, knowing very well he can’t reach it. Eat it. That’s how I feel every time I look at Sol; like I can look or maybe touch and kiss him if I’m lucky enough. But in the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t belong to me. And to be honest, me and the Big Guy up there are on good terms. I wouldn’t want to piss Him off. He’s gotten me through some really tough times. Besides, Sol will leave eventually. And I still need to be right with God when that happens.
I sigh. At least I know what he tastes like. What his kisses and that almost-there smile feel like on my lips. The memory is imprinted in my brain forever.
Shoving the earbuds back in my ears, I force myself to focus on the work in front of me, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering inside my stomach in anticipation.
My room looks like it was attacked by a tornado. Clothes and shoes are scattered everywhere in my attempt to find something to wear and from the frustration and anger that have been building since my mom and I argued. She approached me again on my way out of the diner. I could see how desperate she was to try and understand why Brown wasn’t my choice. Emotions were high, and words were wielded like swords, cutting deep and leaving gaping wounds in their wake. I said some really awful things to her; my mom, my best friend. I told her if she wanted me to go to Brown so badly, she could go herself. Maybe having me instead of following her dream had been a mistake. She winced with every blow, her face crumbling with every word I hurled at her. I don’t know what got into me.
God.
What am I going to do? Why am I ungrateful and self-centered? I wonder who I inherited those traits from. Definitely not from my mother because she’s the most selfless person I’ve ever known.
I feel like everyone is moving forward with their lives while I’m standing still, waiting for the world to nudge me in the right direction. Sometimes, I feel like I’m holding my breath, afraid that if I exhale, the world will slip from under my feet, sending me plummeting and I’ll never get up.
The thought of calling Sol and telling him I won’t be going with him tomorrow momentarily fills my mind, but that would mean spending the rest of the evening in my room with my wild thoughts, seething and pitying myself.
I groan and press the heel of my palms to my eyes, pushing back the tears of frustration threatening to fall. I want to punch something, tear something apart. What’s wrong with me?
I drop my hands from my face and inhale deeply through my mouth.
Sol. So determined and patient and good. But . . . is he really just a friend? I’m not so sure anymore.
I want to kiss him again, feel his hands on my hips, even though my brain keeps screaming that it’s not a good idea. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
It’s just a little flirting and having fun. Nothing serious, I tell myself.
Do you believe your own lies? I inwardly ask, remembering how good it felt to come apart in his hands.
I shake my head. No more lustful thoughts of Sol today. Or at least for the next few minutes. I stop pacing and sit on the edge of my bed. Dropping my head to my hands, I wonder if:
a) My mom is right, and I was lying to myself when I told her Sol and I are just friends.
b) Maybe I could eventually enjoy and appreciate psychology and criminal justice and finally become a profiler.
Her dream.
I take deep breaths.
I need to get out of here. I glance at the clothes on my bed, but nothing seems appealing to wear. I need something new, something to perk me up a little.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and quickly text MJ, asking her if she has time to go dress shopping with me.
There’s one truth in my mind: I’m trying to impress Sol. I want to please him.
I can’t deny that and won’t even try.
We wind up inside a little boutique in Old Port. MJ asks me what I’m looking for, and I tell her I have no idea. When it comes to shopping, I wing it. My fashion decisions mirror my life choices. I can never settle on a specific style.
Subtly, I take in MJ’s outfit, admiring her sense of style. High-waisted black shorts, white tank top that shows off her flat stomach, and a pair of red and blue ballet flats. Her chestnut brown hair is tied in a loose bun at the base of her neck. It hits me how stunning she is. So stunning I feel self-conscious standing next to her.
She catches me staring and smiles confidently. I notice two of her lower teeth aren’t straight, and I’m stupidly relieved. At least she has a flaw.
“What?” she asks.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her.
“Yeah?” she asks, with a pink tinge to her cheeks. “Thanks.”
I nod and feign indifference, but my lips are twitching, fighting back a smile. “It’s disgusting, actually.”
She blinks at me, probably gauging how serious I am. Then she laughs. “Bitch, please. You’re so sweet-looking it’s giving me a toothache.”
I snort out loud. “Come on, help me find something to wear.”
We head toward an aisle full of dresses. MJ plucks a few from the rack with efficiency as if she does this every day. She dumps them in my hands, then points me to the changing room. “Try this one”—she points to an olive green off-the-shoulder dress—“and put those beautiful shoulders on display.”
“Are you always this bossy?” I grumble, stepping into the room the size of a shoebox and stripping off my shorts and T-shirt to slip on the dress. I study my reflection in the mirror, tugging up the drooping neckline.
Hmm. If it were to dip any farther, I’d end up being the showstopper instead of part of the audience.
“You have no idea. Just ask Ivan.” She giggles, and from the mischievous gleam in her eyes, I’m certain we’re talking about completely different things.
I push back the curtain and step out, sweeping a hand down my body in flourish. She eyes me up and down critically, tugging the dress here and there.
“Not sure how I feel about this.” I point at my chest where the swell of my boobs is literally saying hello to MJ. “I’m trying to impress, not tempt.”
She laughs, ushering me back inside the room. “Let’s see the next one.”
A red halter dress catches my attention. My mom likes to quote one of the greatest fashion icons, Bill Bass, “When in doubt, wear red.” I do exactly that, then stand back and look in the mirror. It fits snugly around my chest down to my waist, then flares out.
“Speaking of impressing . . . you and Sol . . .?” MJ starts saying and trails off.
“What about it?” I ask, smoothing my palms over my hips, loving the way the light material hugs my figure, stopping mid-thigh.
“Are you two together together, or just together?” she says. “Messing around.”
Definitely messing around. All I know is I love kissing him. I love that he sees me. It’s hard to believe someone finally can see me when I’ve made every effort to be invisible.
“Nothing has changed since the last time you asked me.”
“Huh.” She’s silent for a moment. “I wonder if Sol has gotten that memo yet.”
I duck out of the changing room and stand in front of my new friend, arms spread to the sides. “He’s definitely gotten the memo. In fact, he’s pretty much the one issuing the memo.” I spin around slowly. “What do you think?”
“Wow.” Her mouth drops open. “Wow. That boy will fall from grace as soon as he lays his eyes on you.”
I choke out a laugh. “What?”
“Those hips are going to kill him.”
I bite my bottom lip and study my reflection again. “Maybe I should get another dress?”
“What? No!” she protests. She eyes me up and down. “I gotta say, I find your hips very disgusting.”
“Oh, shut up.” I laugh at her use of my earlier words, my cheeks burning at her compliment. It’s been a while since I bought myself something pretty, and I really love this dress.
I pay for the dress, and we leave the shop. When we reach the spot where our cars are parked, I hug her, thanking her for agreeing to go with me, then we part ways.
Driving home, I feel particularly blessed for Sol and MJ. One month ago, I didn’t have friends. Now I have two, maybe three if I’m counting Ivan. He and MJ come as a package. I mean, that can’t be pure luck, right? I believe they’ve been put in my life for a reason. I’m really looking forward to finding out what it is.
“Wow.”
That’s the first thing Sol says as soon as I open the door. His eyes move from my hair pinned atop my head with curls falling down my shoulders to the red dress. They linger a little too long on the curve of my hips before moving down to my white Chucks. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “You clean up well, Gracie.”
“You too.” I’m literally drooling, taking in the casual gray V-neck T-shirt that does wonders for his shoulders and arms, camel-brown chino shorts and black Chucks. I want to eat him up.
“Come on in. I’m almost ready,” I say, hoping my thoughts aren’t showing through my eyes.
Curling a hand around the door to stop myself from touching Sol, I step aside to let him in. His gaze darts around the small hallway, taking in the walls decorated with pictures of my mom and me. He looks up, and a smile curves the corner of his mouth. “You still make these, I see.”
“Yeah. How—”
“Told you. I noticed every little thing about you. I also remember when you showed the kids at weekend camp at church how to make them. You impressed the heck out of them.”
My cheeks flame red, and my heart expands in my chest.
Oh, my. Sol. I clear my throat.
“Do they symbolize anything?”
I nod. “The paper cranes represent hope and peace. Have you heard of Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes?”
He shakes his head, his eyes lighting up with renewed interest.
“For my eighth birthday, my mom bought me Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr. It’s a story about this girl, Sadako Sasaki. She discovered she had leukemia when she was eleven years old, a product of radiation poisoning from the bombing on Hiroshima. According to Japanese tradition, if you fold one thousand paper cranes, you’ll be granted one wish.
“Her wish was to live in a world without nuclear weapons. She only managed six hundred forty-four paper cranes.”
The brightness in his eyes dims. “That’s really s
ad.”
I nod. “Her efforts didn’t go to waste. The rest of her classmates folded the rest. She was buried with one thousand paper cranes. Later, when I really got into origami, I did more research on it and found out that she in fact folded about thirteen hundred cranes and not six hundred forty-four as mentioned in the book. There’s a monument of her at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. I’d like to visit it one day, you know.”
He flashes that almost smile at me and murmurs, “Hope and peace. It’s a beautiful story. A bit dark, but beautiful regardless.”
He takes a step closer, eyes of blue fire and lips parted. He stops abruptly and shoves his fists into his shorts pockets and clears his throat. “We better get going before Ivan bursts a vein.”
Shaking off the shivers hijacking my body, I mutter, “Right,” then rush to my room to grab my purse.
Several minutes later, we’re heading out of the building with Sol’s palm pressing on my lower back. I can’t help but lean back, absorbing his warmth. I know how dangerous it is to allow myself to enjoy his touch, but right now, I can’t seem to think of any reason it’s such a bad idea.
We arrive at Mike’s Bar with a few minutes to spare. I glance up at Sol as we walk through the parking lot, suddenly feeling a little nervous. It’s been a while since I socialized in a big crowd, and I’m a bit rusty. What if I’m not good at small talk? What if I make a fool of myself? What if I embarrass him?
I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, I don’t realize Sol has slowed down until he tugs my arm. I turn to look at him, catching the crease on his forehead.
“You okay?” he questions, taking a step forward.
“Yes,” I answer too quickly. “I mean, yes, I am. Why do you ask?”
“You seem a little tense.” His eyes dart down to my sides, and I follow his gaze to my clenched fists.
“Oh.” I flex my fingers. “I’m fine. I’m just—” Before I can finish the sentence, a crackling sound fills the air, drowning out all other sounds.
Sol visibly flinches, his eyes wide and alert as they dart around, scanning our surroundings. His chest rises and falls with quick breaths. He meets my gaze again, and I see an emotion I’ve never seen before. Fear.
